


The Light That Leads Me Home

by PhannVan



Series: Feed Your Head [2]
Category: American McGee's Alice, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drugs, Dry Humping, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hatred, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Prostitution, Public Sex, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tension, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-06-28 13:39:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhannVan/pseuds/PhannVan
Summary: I’m finicky.  What can I say?  My indecisiveness will be the death of me.  Or it won’t.  That’s the beauty of it all.***Alice came back home from a drug trip to the Underground, and she might have brought a friend on "accident."  She just wants to create something beautiful between them.  He just wants to go home.  With any luck, they'll make it out alive.***Sequel to Alice Underground





	1. Breakdown

**Author's Note:**

> It's the sequel no one asked for! ;)
> 
> This is a continuation to Alice Underground. Reading it first is helpful, but not detrimental to understanding this story. To summarize, Alice traveled to the Underground, met a skeleton, did away with a kid, and then came back. I posted the last part of the last chapter to help set up the scene.

_“thanks again.  i don’t think i could have done it without you.”_

_I don’t think so, either, really, but I don’t say anything because I don’t want to_   
_be rude right now._

_“do me a favor though, kid.  don’t come back.  okay?”_

_I don’t want this._

_“it’s just up ahead.  i gotta get back to paps.  i’d tell you to be safe, but_   
_i think you can handle yourself just fine.  see ya.”_

_He turns around to leave,_   
_and I don’t want this._

_The only thing_   
_worse than falling_   
_is floating back up_   
_and seeing bits and flashes_   
_of a world you maybe_   
_knew at one point in time_   
_but now is thrown back_   
_to a distant memory_   
_that you’ll only recall_   
_at three a.m._   
_when sleep_   
_will not come._

_Voices hush into a whisper_   
_and then into nothing at all,_   
_because you’re not floating,_   
_you never were floating,_   
_but you are drunk and maybe a little high_   
_and your insides feel funny because you_   
_don’t know what was in those pills._

_I sit up, using the toilet as support_   
_and when I am on my feet,_   
_albeit a little wobbly,_   
_imagine my surprise_   
_as a bony fist_   
_c o l l i d e s_   
_with the wall_   
_right beside my head._   
_Imagine my surprise_   
_when a skull hovers_   
_just inches from my face_   
_with a left eye socket_   
_sparking to life._

_“you bitch.”_

_Sans?_

_“what did you do?”_

 

* * *

 

 

            Heaven is on the way  
            You can feel the hate  
            But I guess you never will

            I’m on a roll again  
            And I want an end  
            ‘Cause I feel you creeping in

 

I suppose I should be grateful, really.  He punched a hole in the bathroom wall, sure, but at least he did it to a stranger’s.  I rarely visit the same party twice, and if I’m being honest, I think that even if I did, I wouldn’t come here again.  There was definitely something in the pills they gave me.

 

I suppose I should be grateful, but his bony hand isn’t the reason.  My movements are clumsy and I’m still drunk or high or something, I can’t be sure what, but I’m sober enough to know that he shouldn’t be here, just like I’m sober enough to know that I have to somehow get him out of this place and to my apartment without someone getting too good a look.

 

Maybe in his reality monsters are a common occurrence.

 

Not in mine.

 

I’m grateful, I really am, that he keeps his hood up as we take the walk of shame out of the party and into the night.  I’m grateful that he doesn’t cause a scene when some of the tweakers whistle, apparently thinking the amount of time I spent in the bathroom was somehow related to the hooded figure stalking me down the street.  They’re right, but not in the way that they think.  I’m grateful that he keeps his anger in check, keeping his head down.  I’m grateful that he doesn’t move to steady me when I stumble or catch me when I trip over a crack in the sidewalk, because I might get the wrong idea one way or the other.

 

I shouldn’t have gone out tonight.

 

We walk, me ahead and him behind, and I can feel the heat of his anger.  I think I can feel every time he glances up to shoot a glare at my back, but this isn’t Wonderland or Underland or anything that’s definitely under.  This is reality, and I can’t feel things when I’m awake like I can when I’m asleep.

 

We walk, and I’m definitely still drunk.  The street signs are illegible and I’m having problems remembering where I live.  The street signs are illegible and at three in the morning there’s no one to ask for directions.  The street signs are illegible and twirling and swirling and I can’t hold my booze anymore.  I hold onto a street lamp for dear life while all my regrets spill from my mouth until I think I’ll pass out from lack of air.

 

“seriously?”

 

I ignore him.  I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and I feel a little better.  I remember where I live.  We walked a block too far, that’s all.  Normally, if I were alone, I would just turn around.  But I’m not alone.  Am I too embarrassed or too afraid to admit I made a mistake?  Either way, I turn us down the next street and continue on, taking a detour.  I can only hope he doesn’t notice.  The growls coming from behind me tell me he’s impatient. 

 

But never mind.

 

Here we are, home sweet home.  I don’t have to fumble with keys to unlock the door because it’s already unlocked.  I’ve been down this road a time or two.  Besides, there’s nothing in my apartment to steal.  If someone wants to mug me, they won’t get much.  If someone wants to kill me, well, I guess that’s alright, too.  But if that’s true, if that’s really true, then why do I feel nervous letting this monster in?

 

Never mind.

 

I’m finicky.  What can I say?  My indecisiveness will be the death of me.  Or it won’t.  That’s the beauty of it all.

 

I realize my mistake as soon as he closes the door behind us.  He wants answers, and I should have rehearsed something to tell him on our long walk home.  But I’m drunk.  I’m not thinking straight.  I’m thinking topsy turvy and upside down, and when I say that, I mean my stomach is, and when I say that, I mean I think I’m going to be sick again.  I walk to the bathroom without saying a word, and if he follows me, I don’t pay attention.  I stay kneeled next to the grimy toilet until the dry heaving passes, and then I stay a little longer.

 

I don’t want to say that I’m afraid to walk out of the threshold of the bathroom, but fuck, maybe I am.  My head is pounding and the world is tilting.  The last thing I want to do is talk.  Let sober Alice do the thinking.  Drunk Alice just needs to sleep off the sensation of being lost at sea before she gets sick again.  I curl up on the dirty rug and close my eyes, hoping to god that this is all a bad trip and everything will be normal again in the morning.


	2. Buried Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was once melancholy quickly turns to something else entirely. He’s on his feet, closing the distance between us in two steps. My breath catches in my throat, and I swear it has nothing to do with the clawed hand at my throat, raising me and thrusting me against the wall with an ease that shouldn’t be possible, but it certainly doesn’t help.

            Take the time just to listen

            When the voices screaming are much too loud

            Take a look in the distance

            Try and see it all

 

            Chances are that you might find

            That we share a common discomfort now

            I feel I’m walking a fine line

            Tell me only if it’s real

 

“why?”

 

The first thing I notice is the taste of stale booze and acid coating my tongue.  My head is pounding so hard that I fear if I raise it off the cheap linoleum it will pop clean off, leaving blood spatter mixed in with years of neglect.  My body hurts, and I don’t know if I got in a fight again or if I’m just cramped from sleeping on the ground.  But most concerning out of all of it, I think, is the skeleton sitting a few feet away with his back against the threshold.

 

“why did you do it?”

 

He doesn’t sound angry, but I’d rather him punch holes in my walls than listen to the tone he’s taken on.  There’s something so empty in it.  I know I should answer, but I curl up tighter instead, trying to shrink out of existence.

 

“it was over.  after thousands of resets, it was finally over.  my friends.  my brother…”

 

I want to tell him that it was an accident.

 

“we were finally going to be happy.”

 

But deep down I know that’s only half true.

 

I can feel a change in the air.  The suddenness of it makes my head lift from the rug, risk of decapitation be damned.  And Sans. 

 

Sans.

 

What was once melancholy quickly turns to something else entirely.  He’s on his feet, closing the distance between us in two steps.  My breath catches in my throat, and I swear it has nothing to do with the clawed hand at my throat, raising me and thrusting me against the wall with an ease that shouldn’t be possible, but it certainly doesn’t help.

 

“tell me why.”

 

He asks, demands, but I don’t think he really wants an answer.  His grip is a little too tight for me to think anything otherwise.  Struggling against it only makes it worse, but I can hardly stop myself from trying.  All the while a little voice in the back of my mind screams that this is exactly what I wanted, and no matter how hard I try to push it back down, it just keeps getting louder.  I kick out, hoping for contact, but my legs are clumsy and tired.  Just when I think that I’m about to be taken in by sweet, sweet unconsciousness, I’m back on the floor, gasping for air, ready to be sick again.  The sides of my neck feel wet and I don’t have to look or touch to know that it’s blood.  My lungs aren’t free for long, though, because before I can catch my breath, he steps on the top of my spine, light enough to not break but heavy enough to restrict the room I need for air.

 

“why did you bring me here?”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

I didn’t realize I was crying until I heard my own voice.

 

“why did you bring me here?”

 

“I’m sorry!”

 

He lets up, but I don’t fool myself a second time that my torment is over.  His bony fingers are rough against my skin as he flips me back around to face him, his skull so close that I can see the left eye socket backlit from the flaming blue eye he only seemed to conjure when he was pissed.

 

“why.  did.  you.  bring.  me.  here.”

 

I don’t speak.  I know I should, but I don’t.  I’m done talking about it.  I can’t make words.  I don’t know if I’m freezing because I’m afraid or because I want to be defiant, but my reasons don’t matter, because even if he chokes the life out of me, I won’t be able to communicate.

 

“pathetic.”

 

He stands and steps away from me and toward the sink.  I don’t look up.  I don’t need to.  I hear him growling at his reflection for a solid twenty seven seconds (I counted) before throwing his fist through the mirror.  I wonder if he bleeds, but still I do not look.  I don’t want to watch him during his breakdown.  I’ve been there, done that, and when he steps out to wreck a couple other things in my apartment, I let him.  I don’t lie to myself, and I won’t lie to you.  I don’t stop him because I’m afraid for what he’ll do to me (though that is a real possibility, while we’re being honest).  I don’t stop him because I can relate.  Probably more than he knows.

 

Here’s how I think this will go.  He’ll rage for a few more minutes to try and seek relief for misplaced emotions (but maybe in his case they aren’t so misplaced), and when tearing things to pieces doesn’t ease the pain, he’ll give in.  Maybe reluctantly, but he’ll give in.  And then, maybe, possibly, if I can find my voice again, we can talk this out.  And then, maybe, possibly, if he listens, he’ll see it’s not so bad.  Staying here.  With me. 

 

Because, you see, this isn’t my first time down this road, and by that I mean it’s not my first time bringing someone home with me, and by that I mean someone from another dimension entirely.  And, sure, last time didn’t work out so well, it didn’t work like I planned, like I intended.  But I’m hopeful.  I’m optimistic.  I’m determined.

 

All the same, I stay in the bathroom until his screams of rage lighten into soft, gasping breaths.


	3. Thought Contagion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I do know that the sun is coming up. People are walking in suits and heels and heading to their daily nine to five. I remember that I haven’t gone to my job in a week. I think I’m fired by now. No one called to remind me of my shift. I guess they didn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some light noncon and suicidal thoughts in this one.

            Fall down long winds are counted out

            Prop me up before I black out

            Withdraw before you’re out of time

            A clean slate and buried war crimes

 

He’s been on my couch for three days and hasn’t said a word to me, and I honestly can’t tell you if that makes me more uneasy or annoyed, but I can tell you that whatever it is that I’m feeling right now is far from pleasant.  This isn’t what I expected (he isn’t what I expected), but I suppose that I can’t wait forever.  Until he at least acknowledges me, I have to keep on keeping on.  And, since we are being honest and all, I’ll tell you that my interest is starting to wane a little bit.  I’m not saying that I can send him straight home, but I’m not saying that I can’t either.  I guess it’s complicated, and I guess I don’t really want to think about it very much right now.

 

He’ll come around.  Eventually.

 

But for now, I’m bored, and with boredom comes a hunger that can’t be sated with food.  I stare at my reflection in the shattered remains of my bathroom mirror, checking myself over and considering my options.  I’ll be the first to admit that I am not the best at multitasking; however, I have gotten better ever since Sans walked through the threshold of my decimated apartment.  I look at it as multitasking.  Other people would probably look at it as rushing out of blatant discomfort.  I’m nervous with him around.  So sue me.

 

There’s a visible hand print around my throat.  There’s scratch marks, once bleeding, now scabbed over.  Like magic, a little makeup and it disappears.  My type of crowd only likes the scuff if they’re the ones that caused it.  I’m thirsty, and if I can’t get that thirst quenched here, I’ll go out to get things settled, get my mind straight, until I feel more myself again.  I’m anxious inside my home, and I need some fresh air.

 

I’m anxious inside my home, and I need some company.  I don’t know if I’ll find it in a bottle or a pill or another human being.  All I know is that this isn’t working out like I expected and I can feel guilt rising in my throat.

 

Never mind.  The feeling will be gone soon enough.

 

I walk past him looking my best, and it’s not that I’m trying to get his attention, but if I happened to earn a second glance, I wouldn’t mind it.  Instead I get nothing.  My heart jumps and sinks at different emotions going through me, but I ignore it as much as he continues to ignore me.  I don’t bother with goodbyes or explanations.  It’s not like he cares anyway.

 

It’s not like he sees me.

 

I keep telling myself that he just needs time to adjust, but at this point, it feels like I’m lying.

 

Never mind.

 

The air outside, while smelling of pollution and garbage (industry and innovation), is less stuffy than the inside of my apartment.  It’s something I always thought I’d get used to the longer I stayed in the city.  Maybe after another five years that’ll come true.  There’s a bite to the wind that screams fall is on its way, not that that means much when there’s not a tree for miles.  I push the thought down.  I came out here to escape my mood, and thinking about arbitrary things like air quality and lack of seasons isn’t helping my cause.

 

I want to get drunk.  I want to get high.  But for both of those things you need cold, hard cash, and that’s something I don’t have.  At least not now.  At least not yet.

 

I whip out my phone and pray it hasn’t run out of service.  The bars pop up, and I can feel some of the weight lift off my shoulders.  I have a dealer saved in my contacts who’s good for an exchange from time to time.

 

I guess that might make me a whore.

 

It’s okay, though.  Labels don’t bother me (at least not now at least not yet).  All it takes is one quick text and I’m with him in an alley near the corner where he was selling.

 

I guess that makes me a whore.

 

I let him go until I get what I need, because there’s never any passion in our business transactions.

 

I guess I could have avoided the bruising on my face if I didn’t have a change of heart halfway through our deal.  I don’t know where the random streak of conscience came from, but it hit me hard in a “I shouldn’t be doing this” kind of way.  I guess pushing him away from me was the wrong move.

 

Never mind.

 

The pills in my hand are worth it, I suppose.  At least the hungry thirsty part of me thought so before we began.

 

I think about things while I sit in that alley after he’s come and gone.  I think about the pills in my hand, and I wonder what they are.  I wonder if they are prescription or homemade.  I wonder what one would do.  I wonder what the whole bottle would do.

 

Never mind.

 

I’m dirty.  I’m used.  I’m an addict.  I’m not worth it.

 

Never mind.

 

I’m satisfied.  I got what I wanted.  That’s worth something.  Isn’t it?

 

Never mind.

 

I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I do know that the sun is coming up.  People are walking in suits and heels and heading to their daily nine to five.  I remember that I haven’t gone to my job in a week.  I think I’m fired by now.  No one called to remind me of my shift.  I guess they didn’t care.

 

Never mind.

 

I have other ways to make money.  I’ve turned tricks a time or two for more than just pills.  Never mind that I told myself never again.  Never mind the whole turning over a new leaf bit.

 

Never mind.  Just never mind.

 

I walk past all the people and ignore the fact that they put enough space between themselves and me so that they won’t risk touching me.  Do they see how unclean I’ve become, or are they worried they might get mugged?  I give myself a quick glance while passing a shop with large glass windows.  My shirt is torn.  My lip is cut.  My cheek is swollen.  My fly is down.  I zip it back up.  I guess I forgot.  I guess I might be a little ashamed.  I wonder if Sans wonders where I’m at?

 

Never mind.  I don’t need to wonder because here I am, home sweet home, and the door is unlocked just like I left it.  I open up and step in and a part of me is overjoyed and a part of me is fearful because in the small hall between the front door and the rest of the apartment is Sans blocking my path.  I want him to see what happened to me but at the same time I don’t.  It’s complicated, and I hate it.  I want to be the damsel in distress and the bad ass hero all at once.  I want him to worry about me and I want him to fear me.  I can’t pick a side.  I want to cry and rush into his arms and apologize for everything.  I want to yell and push him out of the way and lock myself in my room.  I want everything and nothing and it scares me.


	4. Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “why bother beating the shit out of you when you do the job for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light suicidal thoughts.

            First things first,  
            Imma say all the words inside my head

            I’m fired up and tired of the way that things have been

 

“hey kid.  have fun?”

 

“Hey Sans.  Ass finally numb enough for you to get up from the couch?”

 

“heh.  nah.  i do have a bone to pick with you, though.”

 

“What?  Not going to choke me out and break my shit this time?”

 

He closes his eyes, for a second, and for a second there’s not a sound save for the fluorescent bulb buzzing in the kitchen.  For a second I feel that buzzing in my gut that tells me to run, run now, run back outside while I still have a chance, but before I can get my feet to move, his eyes open back up.  The Christmas lights extinguish into nothingness.  His sockets are empty and my nerves are on fire.  When I was in his world I felt a little more cocky, a little more in control of the situation.  But he’s in my world, and you’d think that would level the playing field out, but you’d be wrong.  I’m nervous, and the hollows of his eyes doesn’t help.

 

“why bother beating the shit out of you when you do the job for me?”

 

I don’t have anything to say to that.  If I’m being honest (and we’ve earned this honesty by now, haven’t we?), I’m a little less damsel in distress and a little more fucking pissed off.  My face is bruised, my shirt is torn, but I’m not in terrible shape.  I’ve looked worse.  I’ve been through worse.  He thinks he knows what’s going on but he doesn’t know the half of it.

 

“so what?  you try to steal someone else away?”

 

Unnecessary.  I’m done talking.  I’m usually so indecisive, but right now I couldn’t be more sure of what I want.  Salvation is my room.  Nirvana is in the little throwaway bottle in my pocket.  Death stands in my way, and I know now that it’s not literal, it’s figurative, and I won’t die from touching him.  I know a lot of things right now.  My wealth of knowledge is infinite because I’m angry so I’m always in the right.  Right?

 

“were they able to stop you before you got the chance?”

 

There’s that electricity in the air again and I know I’m about to hurt a lot more, but I’m too annoyed to care.  I’m still in the hall.  I haven’t even gotten the chance to take off my shoes yet.  I’m tired and I’m upset and I want to shower the shame away from between my legs.  I advance on him, and he advances on me, and I have to look down an inch to meet his eyes, and I know that’s only because I’m in heels.  His eyes haven’t come back to life yet.

 

“lucky them.”

 

He moves aside the same time I push forward.  His shoulder hits mine with a bruising intensity.  I go to the bathroom, stripping my shirt as I walk, too hot headed to care if he’s looking or if he’s not.  I lock the door behind me, and when I say I lock it I mean I turn the little center piece, but it’s more to punctuate my fury than anything practical.  The lock doesn’t work.  It’s never worked.  I shimmy out of jeans that were once comfortable but now feel too tight.  The bottle falls out of the pocket, the lid coming undone and pills clattering on the floor.

 

“Shit.”

 

I get on my hands and knees, trying to scoop them in a pile, but the layer of dirt and grime that I swipe with them makes me feel a little queasy, so I pick them up one by one instead.  I want to wash them, but I know from experience that the little plastic capsules will start to melt away if I do that.  Then what will I have?  Then what will I have done this all for?

 

I need a second.  I need a second to breathe, and if I think about taking them now, I know that I’ll take them all, and right now that doesn’t sound like a bad idea, but in another minute or another hour or another day maybe it will.  I need to just stop for now.  Breathe.  Relax.

 

I reach for the knob of the shower and turn without looking.  When the water starts, I peel off my thong.  I consider washing it.  I really can’t afford to lose another one or in a week I’ll be without, but the thought of keeping it makes me want to take those pills.  There’s a little bit of blood on them.  There’s a lot a bit of my dealer mixed in.  No.  No sense in saving them.  I wish I could just throw them in the trash, but the little can is overflowing and I don’t want to look at them every day, so I rearrange a month’s worth of used tissues and needles and bottles so the panties sit neatly at the bottom.

 

“Fuck…”

 

I’m such a piece of work.

 

I keep the water hot enough to burn away my thoughts.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  When I step back out there’s clothing on the counter I don’t remember putting there, but either I did and forgot, or someone else did.  Both options make me uncomfortable, so I shove it down, shove it back down, and when it doesn’t stay down on its own, I fumble with the bottle and shake one little miracle out in my waiting palm and swallow dry.  I just put on what is given to me before I leave the safety of the bathroom.

 

“kid.  c’mere.”

 

He’s on the couch, his back to me because of my interior design preferences.  I would rather go to bed, thank you very much.  I’m not in the mood for talking.  I’m never in the mood for talking, I guess, and I guess that’s okay.

 

“i don’t want to make you, but i will.”

 

Memories of being floated around against my will flood my mind.  I know he can.  I know he will.  And I don’t like my options, but I take the path of least resistance all the same.

 

He pats at the spot next to him, offering me a seat without saying a word.  I don’t know if he knows that I’m harmless here on my home turf, but I don’t suggest otherwise, so I suppose that’s okay.  I’m supposing and guessing a lot lately, but I guess, I suppose, that having him here doesn’t help.  I guess, I suppose, that things will go back to normal as soon as I take him back home.

 

He sits like he owns the place; slouched, sunk into the cushions, his bony feet propped up on the trash cluttered coffee table that I picked up off the side of the road.  There are scratches in the surface.  I wonder how many are from the ridges of him.  Maybe it doesn’t matter because it was junk anyway but I just want to know how many.  I just want to know.

 

I don’t think these pills are working I don’t feel any different did I do what I did for nothing what even are they what am I supposed to feel because I don’t feel it I think I made a mistake I think I fucked up.

 

“let’s have a chat.”


	5. What Lies Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And my heart is pounding and I’m not annoyed anymore because I’m afraid because he figured it out he knows he knows he knows what I did and I hate it and I hate him for it and I want to crawl away and hide but I want to reach out and slap the smug grin off his damn skull because he doesn’t know the half of it. The other time was different. He wouldn’t understand. He’d never understand.

            Take a breath

            Hold it in

            Start a fight

            You won’t win

            Had enough

            Let’s begin

            Never mind

            I don’t care

 

“let’s set up some expectations, though, since i don’t think you know how chats go.”

 

I don’t want to look him in the face because I’m a little bit afraid, I’m a little bit more afraid than I was a second ago, and I don’t want his eyes to not be there again.

 

“so here’s what happens.  i say something, and you respond.  then you say something, and i respond.  it’s pretty simple once you get the hang of it.”

 

I don’t want to look him in the face but I’m okay with looking at his hand while it gestures to the left and to the right.  It’s like watching a lullaby.  I like it.  But I don’t like it, too.  I don’t think I’m making sense, but you understand, don’t you?

 

“the most important thing is you open your mouth and make some words happen.  that’s really all you gotta do, ya know?  just talk.  easy.”

 

Should I risk glancing his way?  I don’t know.  I don’t know, but I’m supposed to talk but I’m afraid if I open my mouth he’ll smell the fear on me and rip me to pieces because I’m easy prey right now.

 

“let’s just try to talk this out and not lose our heads.”

 

I shrug and look at the wall.

 

“i shrug-gest you use your words, kiddo.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“good girl.”

 

He taps his bony fingers against the back of the couch.  I can hear the faint give of the fabric under pressure.

 

“i’m pretty sure humans are supposed to breathe.”

 

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.  I inhale.  I exhale.

 

“relax.  i ain’t gunna hurt you.”

 

I don’t have to say anything of the alternative.  He can read the look I give him.

 

“eh, i was in kind of a dark place earlier.  sorry about that.”

 

I glare at the floor.

 

“i was in the wrong.  i’m sorry for losing my cool.”

 

I nod.

 

“remember the rules of chatting?”

 

“Ah…yes.  I remember.  I guess I just don’t know what to say.”

 

“that’s okay.  just want to make sure you don’t shut down on me again.”

 

We’re quiet for a little bit, a little bit too long, and I can’t shake this paranoia.  I recognize that it’s paranoia, that it’s not real, that it’s all in my head, and I wonder if I’m overreacting or if there was something in those pills.  I wonder what was even in those pills.  Either way, my heart is racing and I think I want to run, but I stay put just in case.  I don’t know what the reason behind it is.  It’s just in case.  In case what?  Just in case.

 

“okay, i think a good place for us to start is how.”

 

In case what?

 

“alice.  you home?”

 

Just in case.

 

“Huh?”

 

“how did you get me here?”

 

“Oh.  I just traveled.”

 

“…alright, but how did you get me from underground to…wherever we are?”

 

In case what?  My mind is going in circles and I can feel it going in circles and I make little circles in my leg with my nail, scratching and scratching, around and around, and I don’t know why but I want it to match.  There was something in the pills I think.

 

“I don’t know.  Sometimes I have stragglers.  Ah, stowaways.  It’s like how you teleport from one place to another.  I can do that, too.  I can go to other dimensions.  I…I can…ah…”

 

Just in case.  But in case what?  What was I going to do?  Why can’t I remember?

 

“sounds like you don’t have much control over it.  is that right?”

 

Halfway.  Halfway right.  But don’t tell him that.  Don’t tell him.

 

“Kinda.”

 

Fucking hell, Alice, what are you doing?

 

“huh.”

 

I look at him and he looks at me and I don’t like his smirk because he looks like he fit pieces of a puzzle together that I cannot see. 

 

“let’s talk about something else for a second.  let’s get kinda…personal.”

 

He shifts his position on the couch next to me, doing away with his casual destruction of my furniture in favor of slouching over, bony elbows on bony knees, bony face in bony hand.  He scoots closer.  I scoot further.

 

“how often do you do this?”

 

And my heart is pounding and I’m not annoyed anymore because I’m afraid because he figured it out he knows he knows he knows what I did and I hate it and I hate him for it and I want to crawl away and hide but I want to reach out and slap the smug grin off his damn skull because he doesn’t know the half of it.  The other time was different.  He wouldn’t understand.  He’d never understand.

 

“maybe i should be more specific.  how often do you go out to willingly…um…”

 

And now I’m less afraid and more confused because I don’t know what he’s getting at.

 

“…do what you did today…?”

 

“Oh.”

 

The business transaction?  How does he know what happened?

 

“i won’t judge.  i’m just curious.  i thought you’d be the last person to let yourself be taken advantage of, though.  you know.  considering the whole childhood thing?”

 

It takes longer than I suppose it should (there I go supposing again) to remember what he’s talking about, and longer still to remember how he knows.  But my mind wanders back to another time Underground and seeing my soul that he swore was not tainted, and then it clicks together.

 

“I guess I don’t think about it.  I don’t want to talk about it.  Don’t talk about it.”

 

Please, don’t talk about it.

 

“hey, it’s fine, none of my business.  we can change the subject.”

 

His free hand is up defensively.  He makes me feel like a wild animal.  I don’t think I like chatting very much.

 

“I think I’m done, thanks.”

 

What am I doing?

 

“alice.  hey!”

 

I’m going back to my bedroom, but not before taking a detour to the bathroom and grabbing something I want, something I need, because one made me feel paranoid but two might make me feel not.  Not.  I’d rather feel not.  Make sense?

 

No, no it doesn’t make sense, not even to me.  I’m upset and I don’t know why, not yet, but by the time I lay on my bed, I have it all figured out.  I have everything figured out.  I just have trouble putting it into words, so be patient, won’t you? 

 

It’s something between anger and shame, I think.  It’s something to do with the fact that he knew where I was and what I was doing and I didn’t want him to.  I don’t want him to think that about me, because I’m not, and because those labels don’t bother me but what does bother me is when he thinks that about me.  All I wanted was him to fall for me, and instead I get this, whatever this is.

 

I pop a pill in my mouth and suck on it.  It probably has a taste but I can’t taste it right now.  My mouth feels burned.

 

“i wasn’t trying to offend you.”

 

He stands in the doorway of my bedroom while I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.  I’m done talking.  I can feel him watching me, so I close my eyes to try and block him out.  The pill is gone, so I slip in another.  I want to disappear.  The only thing worse than him dragging my body around by my soul is his pity.  I despise it.  My mind is reeling.  I want him to go but I want him to stay.  I want him to go back to his home with his brother but I want him to lay in my bed.

 

Why am I like this?

 

“okay, let’s get to the point, friend.  you like me.  that’s fine.  i’m flattered, really, i am.”

 

My eyes open and I go back to staring at the ceiling.  I wish I could block out his voice.  I don’t want to hear it right now.  Please don’t make me hear it right now.

 

“but you gotta know that this isn’t going to work out, right?”

 

Please don’t.

 

“listen, it’s no hard feelings.  i’m not even mad about it anymore.  but please, you gotta see this isn’t right.  i don’t belong here.”

 

Just stop.

 

“i think it’s time for me to go home.  i have people waiting for me.”

 

Of course he does.  I was silly to ever think otherwise, wasn’t I?

 

“alice?”

 

“…Yeah?”

 

“you okay?”

 

“…Yeah…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice isn't nearly as happy as Papyrus would be to be in the friend zone (if you could even consider it the friend zone). :(


	6. Chandelier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is me at my worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of drugs and booze and sex in this one. A lot a bit of unhealthy coping for a broken heart.

            Party girls don’t get hurt  
            Can’t feel anything, when will I learn  
            I push it down, push it down

 

It’s been a couple hours since Sans fed me my dose of bitter reality.  He’s been on the couch since then.  He’s been sleeping to pass the time by.  I’ve been floating.  He never once mentioned the pills.  He never told me to slow down.  He never told me to stop taking them.  He doesn’t judge.  It’s a judgment-free zone.  I’m grateful for it.  What a good friend.  What an enabling friend.  It’s okay.  I like it like this.  I can live like this.

 

But.

 

But I guess maybe it would be nice to relive those scenes in the movies where the two lovers fight about the little addictions.  I’m not saying that I want the pills slapped out of my hand.  That would just be annoying.  It’s just that I don’t think I would oppose to a reaction of some sort.  It’d just be nice, I think, if he pretended to care.  Even a little bit.  Even if it was a lie.  I’d like a good lie right about now.

 

But that won’t happen.  I know it, and you know it, and I guess some things just aren’t meant to be, huh?  It’s the way of the world.  And it’s okay.  I’m not new to this.  I’m used to rejection. I’m used…  I’m used to being used.

 

He did use me, you know.  Not here, but back there, back Underground, he used me to get rid of some little brat.  He showed me my soul and held me when I cried and made so many promises, but I guess touches mean nothing and words are just words.  And when it was done, I guess it was just done.  I guess that’s it.  Nothing more.

 

I’m leaving out details, of course.  I did my fair share to push him away.  But I grew since then.  I’ve grown.  I’m not the same person I was yesterday, let alone a week ago.  I guess some things can’t be forgiven.  It’s okay, though.  It’s fair.

 

It still stings, though.

 

This rejection still stabs through that pure soul he drew out of my body, just to do it, just to prove a point that I’m not as broken as I thought I was, and what was that for?  Why did he do it?  Why did he hold me that night?  Why did he make me feel like this?

 

I realize I’m doing this to myself at this point.  I shouldn’t be dwelling.  Dwelling only gets you into trouble, doesn’t it?  Yeah.  I guess it does.

 

I’m rambling, though.  None of this matters.  Nobody cares my thoughts on the matter.  What’s a broken heart but a chance to grow a new scar?  Learning experience?  Something along those lines. 

 

I need out of the apartment for some air, but I don’t want to walk past Sans in the living room.  I don’t want to look at him right now, because if I do, I might lose my nerve, and, to be honest, my nerve is really all I have going for me right now.  I’m happy to live on the ground floor.  It makes the jump from my window less suicide and more adventure.

 

Make sense?

 

I don’t have any money, but I have a pocket full of pills that I don’t like very much that I’m sure I will be able to trade for a shot or two or three or four.  My dealer never delivers the consistent high that alcohol does.  Right now I crave consistency.  Right now I crave a comfortably numb blackout that won’t make me paranoid.

 

There’s a shady bar just down the road from my shitty complex, and when I say down the road, I mean it’s a twenty minute walk sober, thirty five minute stumble drunk.  I’m painfully sober, but my heart feels heavy so I think it will take me twenty seven minutes to get where I’m going.  My feet are slower when I have something on my mind.

 

The bar is loud with drunks and druggies coming to share some common ground on the dance floor.  The pulsing lights make my head pound in time with the music, and not necessarily in the good way.  I’m not drunk enough for this, but give it time and I will rule this bar.

 

This is me.  This is me in my element.  Sans thinks the problem lies in the bursts of violence in the Underground, but he doesn’t know the half of it.  This is me, this is Alice Liddell at her worst.  Drinks and drugs all around, and everyone is fair game.  I’m not picky when it comes to kisses on the bar or lap dances on the table or quickies in the bathroom or orgies in the alley.  I’ve done it all, been through it all, and I think he’s right to push me away.  When the girl in the corner puts the tablet on my tongue, I can feel the aching hurt melt off my heart.

 

Alice Liddell at her worst.

 

I can feel everything, even the air has texture to it, and it makes my heart pound behind my eyes, and it’s delicious.  I find a girl on the dance floor and make her mine, and she lets me.  She doesn’t mind that my lips are on her lips or her throat or her breast.  She doesn’t mind that my hands ache for something to hold, so when I slip my hand under her bra, she doesn’t push me away.  She moans, she asks for more, and I’m not about to shove her away like she means nothing, because right now, right in this moment, she is everything.  She is beautiful and desirable and everything I strive to be but will never be.  But I could be.  I think I could be.  If only I were given a chance. 

 

Why won’t he give me a chance?

 

She doesn’t stop me and neither does anyone else when my hand dips under the hem of her pants for just a touch of something more.  She doesn’t stop me when I undo her belt and push her jeans down her thighs and bend down for just a taste, just a little taste, because I can and because she lets me and I just need this.

 

This is me at my worst.

 

These tablets are supposed to make everything feel good and I guess they do for the most part, but there’s still this annoying voice in the back of my mind telling me that this won’t make things better, and I don’t want to listen because this woman’s moans are better than any amount of guilt my brain is trying to throw my way.

 

One finger, two finger, three finger, four, and she cums on my tongue, all in front of everybody in the bar.  She moves to kiss me, and I push her away.

 

I don’t know why I push her away.

 

I don’t know why.

 

But never mind all that, because my attentions are on the line of shots on the bar.  My consolation prize.  I can’t taste the alcohol.  Why can’t I taste the alcohol?  One shot, two shot, three shot, four and five, six?  Seven?  Something.  When the drinks are gone my mind is numb and my body is tingling and I wonder if it’s a mix of booze and molly or if they maybe put something in my drink.  I don’t know.  I don’t know, but I feel like a game of Russian Roulette is about to happen, and I don’t know if I’m the gun or if I’m the bullet.  Please let me be the bullet.  I want to be the bullet.

 

This is me at my worst.

 

Last call comes and goes and if I don’t get out of the bar myself things will get physical.  They never care what happens to you when you walk out that door, but that’s okay, because there’s always a friendly face in the crowd who has your back, who has your hand, who has their hand on your ass to lead you where you need to go next, and I don’t mind it.  It’s nice being taken care of every once in a while.  Besides.  Besides.  Besides…

 

Besides the buzz isn’t gone yet and there’s a club across town that stops the booze but keeps the music so the fun doesn’t have to end yet.  I’m not ready to go home yet.  I don’t want to go home.

 

The drive to the party is a blur of kisses and touches from everyone piled in the car.  Where does my body end and theirs begin?  I don’t know.  It doesn’t matter, because we make it to our destination soon enough, and I’m ready, I’m ready to dance in a crowd of people I don’t know, a crowd I have no desire to know, because it’s safer that way.  Revealing little pieces of yourself is a dangerous game.  Talking just forms attachments, and we all know where that leads us, we all know what happens when you have little chats.  You talk, I respond, vice versa, etc.  These strangers don’t make me talk, don’t make me reveal.  In fact, I think they like me better that way.  They like me better silent.

 

I crave silence.

 

But I can feel the music in my soul and I can feel bodies to the left and right and front and behind and I don’t know how much time has passed but I think I’m coming down from my high.  Another shot, another, plus I steal drinks from other people’s bottles and glasses, and I try to hold on to this life, but my grip is slipping.  My vision is blurry and everything moves in slow motion, so even when I laugh with strangers and fall on the ground, I can count each frame as it happens.  They help me up, but I lose my footing, and they help me again, but I trip, and then they find better looking strangers to dance with, because they’re still high and I’m just wasted.

 

Wasted.  Wasted space.  Wasted air.

 

My mind works on a spindle, a wheel, a never ending hoop, and I don’t know why I expect anything different to come from this night.  It’s always the same.  I feel bad, so I drink, but I drink, so I feel bad.  Nothing changes.  Nothing ever changes.

 

Except.

 

Except when I drag myself off the center of the dance floor to sit on the edge, tears filling and spilling from my eyes as my fantasies crumble around the cold, harsh reality of what my life is, I feel a familiar buzz in the air.

 

And I don’t know how, I don’t know how he found me, but he did, and I wonder how long he’s been there, standing in the corner of the room, hood up and head down.  My heart stops, then overflows, then stops again.

 

I’m not ready to go home yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *munches popcorn* o.O


	7. Dance Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But just let me be here in this moment a little while longer. Just let me believe that something will come of this. Even if it is a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, kid, you want some emotional torment?

            She says she’s no good with words, but I am worse

            Barely stuttered out a joke of a romantic stuck to my tongue

            Weighed down with words too overdramatic

            Tonight it’s it can’t get much worse

            Verses no one should ever feel like

 

There’s safety in numbers, unless the numbers is strangers.  There’s no safety when they don’t have your best interest at heart.  I don’t know why I stumble back to the other side of the dance floor in the dimly lit club.  I want to go to the hooded figure watching me but I’m afraid that I want it too much and I’ll do another thing I regret.  Really, though, what is one more regret on pages for this evening?

 

Is he mad?

 

Is he mad at me?

 

There’s a door at the other end of the room that leads outside.  Not an exit, but a place to have a smoke and enjoy the quiet without cutting out of the party.  I don’t want to smoke, but I don’t want to leave, and a breath of fresh city air sounds heavenly right about now.  My stomach is churning and I think I drank too much, but I think I can hold my alcohol so long as I can feel the cold on my face.

 

One step at a time.  My movements are not graceful.  I run into my fair share of people, and for the most part they take it in stride.  Only one girl pushes me, but after I hit the floor another stranger helps me up.  I can’t tell if they are male or female because things are blending again.  I’m uncomfortably aware of the nausea taking over my senses.  Thankfully I’m close to the door, so when the stranger rubs against me, I push them away and drag my legs to the metal and glass entry to freedom.

 

“Oh shit.”

 

My mouth waters and I think I’m going to lose it, but as soon as my body hits the dirty pavement the feeling flutters away.  My stomach hurts in a different way, and I think I might by laying in broken glass by the sounds of it, but if I have to cut myself up to avoid puking, so be it. 

 

I don’t know how much time passes, but when I stand back up, the only thing that hurts is the places where I bleed.  I’m by no means sober, but I feel different.  Better.  Let’s call it a second wind.

 

I’m alone outside, save for a couple at the smoker’s table at the corner of the gated area.  They kiss, they touch, they moan for each other, unaware of my presence.  I’m no stranger to public displays, as you are likely well aware at this point, but there’s something different about this.  Something pure.  I won’t lie; I’m envious of them.  I turn away before things get too heated.

 

Fast forward, back in the club.  I don’t remember going back inside, but I’m in the middle of the dance floor moving against people as I see fit.  What am I doing?  I stop and move closer to the entrance.  If Sans wasn’t mad before, I think he’s surely furious now.  Rather, I want to be sure.  I want to him to feel something, anything, even at my expense, even if there’s no reason.  I want him to have discovered I was gone and come looking for me because he realized he was wrong and that he could try to make things work with me.

 

I search the spot where I last saw him, but no one is there. 

 

Maybe he was so upset that he left me.  Maybe when I get home he’ll yell and toss me around.  I’ll accept it.  I’ll accept anything.  Maybe after that he’ll feel bad and he’ll just hold me for a while.  That’s all I want.  It’s all I ever wanted.

 

I’m drunk.  I’m confused.  I’m emotional, and no amount of fantasizing about something that will never happen will make me feel better. 

 

I should go home.

 

But the next song calls, and my drunk, confused, emotional self feels the message in the beat, so with tears streaming down my face, I turn back to the center of the floor.  No longer to I seek another body out.  No longer do I dance with open eyes.  I just feel.  I move.  I settle my anguish the only way I know how right now without booze or drugs.  People bump into me, but I don’t care, and if they care, I wouldn’t know.  I crave something I can never have, and I just want to be free from it all.

 

I don’t seek anyone out, but I don’t push away the hands that land on my shoulders, light, tense, warm.  I just sway, tears spilling from under my eyelids, my throat struggling to hold in a sob.  And I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I’m not usually like this.  I don’t always get this bad, but I guess when you got it bad, you want to do bad.  I don’t know if that makes sense, but please forgive me, because the hands on my shoulders graze down my arms to my fingertips and just hold for a second, and I can’t concentrate because my mind is going wild at the touch with images I know aren’t real, they never were, they never will be, but please, let me have this.  The hands, a little more sure, a little more forward, travel up the inside of my arms, down my back, stopping at my hips.

 

I can’t.  It’s too much.

 

So imagine my surprise when I open my eyes to invite the stranger home with me because I’m willing to accept anything at this point.  Imagine my surprise…

 

“…Sans?”

 

His hood is still up and his hands are gloved and he’s wearing sweatpants that I think might be mine.  His eye lights are out but I can feel him looking at me.  His hands are still on my hips.  He doesn’t say a word.  He grabs my hand instead with one of his own, entwining our fingers, and I think I might be in love, but I’m drunk and confused and emotional and I don’t know if I want to follow where he leads me because a part of me is screaming that this touch means nothing to him even though it means everything to me.  He nods and walks backwards a few steps, his movements slow and deliberate, and I don’t know if he’s doing it for his benefit or mine, but I stumble along anyway.  We both know I’ll go wherever he wants.  We both know this.  Don’t we? 

 

He walks me closer to the edge of the dance floor, as if he wants to take me home, but I know deep down that there will be no happy ending for me there.  I resist.  I need this moment, even if it is a lie.  He stops, and I don’t know if he knows how grateful I am that he chooses not to drag me kicking and screaming out of this place, because I’m not right in the head right now and I’m not above a temper tantrum.  He pulls again, gently, and I pull back.  His head tilts to the side, and I wish he would stop, because I’m so many things and I think I’m falling for him hard. 

 

I pull again, not expecting anything to happen, but he gives in and closes the gap between us.  He reminds me of the still bleeding gashes on my torso when he brushes up against them, and you’d think it would be enough for me to stop this nonsense, but the pain only makes me feel more alive.  My arms wrap around the bones that make up his neck.  His arms settle on my waist.  We sway in time to nothing but the beat of our hearts.  Fuck the club music.  This is the only music I need. 

 

When he takes a moment to tilt my chin back up to face him, my heart stops.  He wipes the still flowing tears from my cheeks, and my heart swells.  I feel.  I feel so much that it’s agonizing.  He doesn’t stop me when I bury my face in the front of his hoodie, and I don’t stop him when he traces the outline of my hair and back.  And I know, I know, that this doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to me, and I think it makes it hurt more.

 

But just let me be here in this moment a little while longer.  Just let me believe that something will come of this.  Even if it is a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you, but they make my heart hurt. :'(


	8. Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home isn’t really a place. It’s a feeling. I heard that somewhere at some point, and I think I can see where they’re coming from. My apartment doesn’t really feel like home to me. It’s just a box. A small, dirty box that I stumble to when I’ve had too much. Home, though. I don’t think I’ve ever really had a home if we think about it like that. The closest I’ve ever had to home has been a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get hot and heavy in this one. Also some suicidal fantasies.

            And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming  
            Or the moment of truth in your lies  
            When everything feels like the movies  
            Yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive

 

Home isn’t really a place.  It’s a feeling.  I heard that somewhere at some point, and I think I can see where they’re coming from.  My apartment doesn’t really feel like home to me.  It’s just a box.  A small, dirty box that I stumble to when I’ve had too much.  Home, though.  I don’t think I’ve ever really had a home if we think about it like that.  The closest I’ve ever had to home has been a lie.

 

I thought he would teleport us here, but we walked instead, hand in hand until I stumbled, then he chose to wrap a bony arm around my waist to hold me up when all I wanted to do was sleep.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the touches and the care; the issue lies that I think I want more than that and his words from earlier echo through my head and I know this won’t work.  I want to be satisfied with friendship, even if it is fabricated to get me to give him what he wants.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend, and that’s a nice feeling, too, I suppose, I guess, but I don’t know. 

 

He unlocks the door with a key I forgot I even had, and when he gets me to the couch, he goes back to the door and I think he’s going to leave for good, but I hear the click of the lock and he’s back again.  The cushions sink when he sits, and I blame them for my body pressing into him.  No way I would do that on my own.  I’m uncoordinated.  Clumsy.  A little buzzed. 

 

He doesn’t push me away.

 

“what happened back there?”

 

His voice is quiet.  Soft.  Deep.  It starts a fire in my veins and awakens something inside me.

 

“can i see?”

 

He motions toward my bloodied shirt and I oblige, pulling the dirty thing up over my head.  My bra, once white, is tinged pink and brown from fresh and dried blood.  Too bad.  It’s one of my favorites.  I stole it from a house party a couple years back.  My stomach is red, but that’s alright.  I’ve had worse.  Let’s not worry about that now.  I’m not in the mood.

 

“should probably clean those up before they get infected.”

 

Who, Sans?  Me or you?  You say it like that and leave it open for interpretation and people like me get the wrong idea. 

 

When he touches my skin, he feeds the fire.  He makes my blood pound.  I know why he’s doing it, I know he wants to make sure I’m okay, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least have a basic understanding of what he does to me.  I know it’s against my better judgment, but my better judgment is out the window right now.  Even as the back of my mind is screaming not to do it, I grasp his hand and move it up to my chest.  I lean up and press my mouth against his exposed teeth because it’s the closest I can get to this being the real thing.

 

And he doesn’t push me away.

 

When opportunity knocks, you open up the fucking door and climb up on his lap.  Never mind that the lack of flesh makes the seat uncomfortable.  Never mind that the cuts on my stomach are splitting back open with each movement.  I move my hips against his pelvic bone and I expect nothing, I don’t even know why I do it except for force of habit, but I feel something warm and growing hard through my jeans and I think there’s more to Sans than what I originally thought.

 

I unhook my bra and press myself into his hand again, and the warmth of his bones transfers through my skin, my lungs, traveling through my throat until a moan escapes my lips, and it’s been so long since I’ve made a sound without faking.  This is right.  This is good.  This is home.

 

He pulls away from my kiss and I hesitate, thinking he’s come to his senses, but instead he nuzzles his face against my neck.  I think if he could open his mouth he would bite me.  Oh my god, I wish he could open his mouth, but the ridges of bone will have to do.  With his hands all over me and my mind all blurry, this feels surreal, too much, not enough.  I know what I want and excuse me if I’m wrong, but I think he wants the same thing, which is all good and well, because my last several times with men haven’t been rape but definitely haven’t been 100% consensual, either, and damn if I won’t take full advantage of this, of me, of him, of us, and my nails are hungry for skin that isn’t there but they scrape against bone and that seems enough, just enough, so that I think he might be ready and god knows I’m ready and please I just need this.

 

And then.

 

And then he pushes me away.

 

When I say he pushes me away, I don’t mean with force, and I know you can get the wrong idea from that.  I don’t mean he pushes me down and tears my clothes off.  If that were the case, my mind would be swimming and my hips would be working and I wouldn’t be thinking right now, yeah?  I don’t mean that he shoves me from him violently in disgust, either.  He pushes me away so gently I almost don’t feel it, but I’m still a little drunk and when I feel, I feel to the thousandth degree.  Gentle.  A stiffening of his bony limbs.  Gentle.  A turn of his head.  Gentle.  A sad little smile playing on lips that don’t exist, not in the way you think.  The warm lump between us is still there.  I can feel it pulsating against my crotch, but the fever in his movements is gone.  Just like that.

 

I’m no stranger to rejection.  It’s just that usually the push happens before we get as far as we are.  But I’m bleeding again, and I don’t think I mean from the wounds on my stomach.  I hurt.  My heart hurts.  I feel heavy.  I feel stupid.

 

“I’m gunna go take a bath.”

 

I hear the words in my voice, but I don’t remember making them.  I don’t give him a chance to say anything before I walk down the short hall to the bathroom and lock the door that never locks, not really, out of habit.  I don’t want to hear what he has to say.  I just want this night to end.

 

I turn the tap and set the stopper and wait for the steam from the water to fog what remains of the mirror. 

 

This was a mistake.  This whole thing, from beginning to end.  Mistake.  I want to cry.  I think I’d feel better if I did.  But I think the last of my tears left me at the club.  Now all that’s left is emptiness.  Hollow.  Frozen to the core.

 

I strip what’s left of my clothes, not that there’s much left.  Not that there was much to begin with.  I can still feel his touch on me and I hate it.  I think I hate it more than I hate any other person who has left their mark on me.  The rest meant nothing.  He meant everything.  It’s simple, if you think about it.  You know? 

 

Never mind.  Never mind the whole thing.

 

I run my fingers over the cuts that bleed freely, drawing lines up and down my torso.  I wonder if there’s still glass in some of them, because some definitely hurt more than others.  I dig my nails into them, splitting the skin further, and I can’t tell you why.  The pain feels necessary.  I think I deserve this.

 

The water burns, but I don’t mind it.  It takes my pain and puts it in a physical form.  Make sense?  It’s easier to feel low when you have a good reason for it.  It’s easier to feel pain when you can see it.  It makes it real.  Make sense? 

 

Who am I kidding?  Nothing makes sense.

 

I think if I were younger and I had the energy, I’d take this moment to slash my wrists open and try my hand at blatant suicide.  Younger me was eccentric and melodramatic and full of all the good, grand, wonderful ideas.  But I’m just too tired to put forth the effort.  If Sans hates or pities me now, I can only imagine how much he’d hate or pity me dead.  It would just be another way to be a burden.  My death would get him no closer to home. 

 

It’s late, though, and the burning water feels like a hug from an old friend, not that I know what that feels like first hand, but I can imagine.  It’s late, and I’m too tired to feel angry or sad or embarrassed for what happened tonight.  It’s late, and I’m empty, and the water is too warm, and I’m just so god damn tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God. Fucking. Damnit.


	9. White Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You want to know the real reason why you came back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's an inner struggle without some misplaced sexual feelings? ;)

            We’re falling and we’re losing control  
            You’re pulling us and dragging us down this dead end road

 

The falling  
            is falling  
except when it’s not falling  
                                    it’s rising  
                        and floating  
                                                and changing  
                                                            and nothing.

 

W o n d e r l a n d .

 

I don’t know why I’m here,  
                                    but I imagine the reasoning can’t be good.  
            What was I doing before I fell?  
                        Where was I going?

                                    What was I feeling?

                        Is my body okay?  
            Is my mind okay?  
Am I okay?

 

All I know for certain is that things are worse off than when I visited last.

 

Things are deranged.

 

Red.

 

Black.

 

Dead.

 

“And in a sudden whirlwind of despair, our savoir returns once more, poised and pronounced and prepared to punctuate her predicament with the pain she feels in depths of her very soul.”

 

Cat.

 

“The soul that was blackened by fire and stained with murder.  But I suppose you think your soul is not tainted by the sins of the past.  Thanks to a certain skeleton, I predict.  Do tell, am I on the spot?  I’m curious.”

 

“Ah, you know what they say about curiousity.”

 

“Killed the cat, yes, yes, but you forget the rest.  You forget the, yes, the satisfaction.”

 

His words smolder and purr.

 

“Cat…”

 

“That’s what you came back for, yes?  The satisfaction?”

 

Yes?  No?

 

“I don’t know why I’m here, if that was an actual question and not one of your stupid games.”

 

He appears then in front of me, not as the cat I knew, but the one I created.  No more is he a four-legged mangy thing plagued with malnourishment and disease.  He stands upright, if the slouch in his back counts for anything otherwise.  His front paws are replaced with clawed hands.  Silver hair falling in dreads around his shoulders frames his dark face.  His grin is the same, unnatural and sharp, as is his eyes, yellow and reminiscent of sickness.  His skin is as grey as it was before, with the same tattoos littering his skin.  The tail at the small of his back has too many joints hidden within and a tuft of black hair at the tip.  It flicks from side to side of his long, lean form.  Seeing him here stirs something inside me that I’d rather leave forgotten in the past, but I suppose you never forget your first.

 

“Somehow, your slow nature doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

 

“Bite me, Cat.”

 

He snaps his fangs at me and arches a single perfect eyebrow.

 

“For you?  I’d do more.”

 

I don’t like his dark chuckle, or the way he dissipates in the cloud of smoke he conjures at will.

 

“Stop teasing and say what you’ve come to say.  I haven’t got all day.”

 

“No.  No, I suppose you don’t.”

 

I don’t like his tone, or the way the ground falls out from under me.  I don’t scream anymore.  I am used to this manner of talking to him at this point in our ever-strained relationship.  And yet…

 

The images he shows me on my fall are enough to make me wince.  Every moment, every interaction, between myself and Sans, flashes in front of me in vivid colors.  It’s high definition at its finest, or at its worst, depending on whose side you’re on.  I fall and relive memories of the recent past: sleeping next to him after a midnight dip in a pond to wash away my mistakes; seeing my soul for the first time and being held when the emotion got to be too much; dancing against him while my world spun out of control; our little episode on the couch just moments ago…  But it’s not all good.  There’s all the times I blacked out and tried to kill him, or all the times he dragged me by the very soul he held before me when I refused to follow, or when he smashed his fist through a stranger’s bathroom wall next to my face, or when he tried to choke the life out of me…  Little snippets of the cat and myself in situations so similar but so vastly different, only in that he always had the upper hand and I never had a prayer of winning.

 

“You have a nasty habit of dragging things down to your level, you wretched girl.”

 

Every time I pushed and pulled and fought.  Every time I begged and pleaded.

 

“I wonder…”

 

Every time I was fucked over and every time I was fucked.

 

“Do you have the same fate in mind for that pile of bones?”

 

Every time he dragged me back from the edge of my own sanity.

 

“Poor Alice.  So indecisive.  I always loathed that about you.”

 

Every time I tried to slash myself from existence and every time he stopped me.

 

“You want and you want and as soon as you receive, like a spoiled child, you toss aside like it meant nothing.”

 

I reach the bottom of the rabbit hole, landing hard on my back, knocking the wind from myself.  I close my eyes, open them, close, open, and he’s upon me, pinning my wrists above my head and squeezing my legs together with his knees.  The cat towers over me, running his tongue over his canines with a look in his eyes that should frighten me but the only thing pounding is the space between my legs.  He smirks, and I hate him for it.

 

“Our time grows short, little girl.”

 

And he’s right, because I can see myself in the bathroom, in the bathtub, and the water overflows onto cheap, stained linoleum.  I’m under the surface.  I wonder how long I’ve been there?

 

“You want to know the real reason why you came back?”

 

His claws are on me, slashing through the dress I wear and pulling down, down, down, until his hand fits neatly between my thighs.  He strokes.  My breath catches in my throat.  It feels good, and I hate him for it.

 

“You can’t decide on a path.  You want everyone else to make the decision for you.”

 

He moves his hand, readjusts, and a single slender finger enters me while his thumb still strokes away.

 

“Left or right, Alice?  Cat or skeleton?”

 

A second finger pushed in to the knuckle.

 

“Live or die?”

 

A third.  I moan under him and I hate myself for it.  I want nothing more than to spread my legs for him but I’m trapped under his weight.  His slender form is deceiving. 

 

“You lack the ability to live with your choices.  You can’t commit to living, but you fear the consequences of dying.  You’re a puppet begging for someone to control the strings.”

 

It’s only been a few seconds but he knows all the right buttons to push from years of experience, so I’m putty in his hands already.  He edges me and lets me down rapid fire until there’s tears spilling down my face, and it’s there, right there, oh my god, fuck yes—

 

And he pulls his hand away just before I reach that peak, licking his fingers clean with malicious precision, as if reminding me exactly what he can do with that tongue of his.

 

“Alas, these games have to come to an end sometime.  The fun has run its course.”

 

His voice is heat, liquid velvet, smooth chocolate. 

 

“I won’t play your conscience any longer.”

 

And just like that, he’s gone.  It’s like he was never there to begin with.

 

Maybe he never was.

 

Do I give in and die?  Or do I wake up and live?  There’s no time to weigh the pros and cons of the matter, and if I’m being honest, if you still appreciate honesty after all this, I can see how attractive giving in would be.  I don’t think it would hurt.  Not really.  It’d be like an orgasm, I think.  It’d be a big release, and then, bliss.  A high that never crashes.  A poetic end to a lifetime of bad decisions.

 

Tick tock, Alice.  Time’s up.

 

I choose release.  Life was never my style anyway.

 

I watch the door of the bathroom bust off the hinges.  I see a flash of blue, and then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O.O
> 
> Also, there won't be another chapter for several days while I'm away from my laptop. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think so far. Also, if you're interested, I have two tumblr accounts you can follow me at.  
> http://lovealwaysmandakay.tumblr.com is where I post a little bit of everything (mostly Undertale)  
> http://mandakaywrites.tumblr.com is where I post all my writing


	10. Sweet Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I were to tell you that I had too much, that I wasn’t trying to kill myself and I just had too much, you’d believe me, right?

            And it’s not enough to tell me that you care  
            When we both know the words are empty air

 

If I were to tell you that I had too much, that I wasn’t trying to kill myself and I just had too much, you’d believe me, right?  We’ve gone along like this for a long time, and I feel like there’s some trust there, isn’t there?  You feel it, too, right?  Because I guess what I’m trying to say is that things are a little fuzzy right now while bony fingers are down my throat pressing into all the right places to make me throw up whatever happened tonight.  My face is swollen and my throat is sore and my lungs are burning, and when warm bones come in contact with my cheek again I grab at them, my fingers wrapping around soaked cloth. 

 

“alice!”

 

I keep telling myself I just had too much and that whatever happened was an accident.  I repeat it over and over in my head, but, between me and you, I’m not so sure that’s really how it happened.  I don’t know.  I feel weird.  Spacey.

 

“wake up!  alice!”

 

I don’t know if I should trust my eyes when I’m this fuzzy on everything, but the faucet is still running in the bathtub.  There’s water spilling over the side and I think I’m kneeling in a sizeable puddle for indoors.  There’s something at the bottom of the tub.  There’s splashes of red on the plastic wall built in to the sides.  Everything’s swirling again, and my stomach gives.

 

“okay.  it’s okay.  just let it all out.”

 

There’s nothing much to let out but water tinged with blood.  I don’t remember drinking so much water, but to be fair I don’t remember much but falling asleep.  Just being drowsy.  Being drowsy and ashamed.  Why was I ashamed?

 

I shift, and it’s not because I tell my body to shift, but rather I’m moved so that I’m not hunched over against the ever flowing stream of water currently turning my shady one bedroom apartment into the complex’s largest indoor swimming pool.  I lean instead against San’s ribcage heavily while he finally turns the tap off and pulls the plug to drain away what’s there.  With regret I watch pinkish water with flecks of vomit go down the drain.  There’s still some on the floor, but if he notices he doesn’t say anything.

 

My stomach churns again, but when I lean over the side of the tub, nothing happens but dry heaving.  He holds my hair.  He rubs my back.  He lets me stay like that until I catch my breath, and I think I only catch my breath because I can see a knife laying on the bottom of the tub and I my head is clear enough to feel the dull throb in my wrists from scratches I don’t remember making.  I don’t remember it.  I don’t remember, but the evidence is right in front of me glaring in all its sterling silver glory.  A kitchen knife.  That’s not my style.  Not my magnum opus, if you will, but it’s there, it’s right fucking there and surely I would remember taking it from the kitchen but I don’t.

 

This.  This whole situation.  This entire thing is surreal.  It’s fucked up.  I hate it.  And the more that Sans touches me the less it feels like comfort and the more it feels like he’s straight up patronizing me.  I hate it.  I hate him.  The thought of grabbing the knife that stares into my soul and shoving it in his teeth is attractive but would take too much effort; besides, my limbs are still shaking and my coordination is off by a couple degrees.  I would miss, and he would fling me around just for old time’s sake.  Instead, when I get my bearings, I shove him away as hard as I can muster, which feels frustratingly weak for me.  He doesn’t resist or force himself closer, and for that I’m grateful, but god damnit, that’s it.

 

“Don’t.  Just.  Don’t.”

 

He holds up his hands palms out (if you could imagine a skeleton having palms), and again I feel like a wild animal.  A freak.

 

I hate it.

 

“You can’t.  Do.  That.”

 

He looks confused and it’s insulting.  He should know it’s rude to act stupid.  The cat at least knew better than to ask questions he already knew the answer to.  What I wouldn’t give, what I wouldn’t give to…to…

 

“Don’t act like you care about me.”

 

Please.  Please.  I can’t take it if you do.

 

“Don’t lie.”

 

Please.  If you do, this whole thing will just be harder.

 

“Just.  Just don’t.  Don’t.”

 

I watch his eye sockets change shape.  What a wonderful caricature of worry, but it’s an expression I don’t need right now.  I don’t want his concern.  I don’t want his pity.  All it does is make my insides feel heavy and my throat feel tight.

 

“alice…”

 

“Don’t you fucking dare, Sans.  Don’t you dare.”

 

“sweetheart i’m so sorry.”

 

“Shut up shut up shut up!”

 

My voice rises and breaks and I can feel the sob in my throat but I don’t want to let it out.  It’s easier for this to end if I hate him with every fiber of my being but with every word that comes from his mouth I can feel my resolve dwindle.

 

He reaches out to me and I push his hand away.  Please, Sans, please just leave me alone.  But he reaches out again and I bend, if only to make him feel better about the things he makes me go through as I jump through hoops to get a reaction from him, because lord knows his touch does nothing to help me.  In a second my face is pressed against his cold, wet hoodie, but there’s warmth underneath all that, I know, I can feel it in the bones underneath it all.  He holds me tight against him, one skeletal hand firmly on the back of my head, smoothing the mess of hair down against my skull again and again.

 

“I can’t do this,” I whisper against his shoulder.  “I can’t keep doing this.”  I don’t rightly know which part I’m talking about.  The drugs?  The booze?  The blackouts?  The suicidal tendencies?  The back and forth with him?  I don’t know.  I just know that I can’t.

 

“shh, it’s okay.  you’re okay.”

 

I don’t know the precise moment that I gave in, but I know that was the first time I was aware of it.  I tried to stop crying by holding my breath, but with every stroke of his hand I gave in a little more.

 

“No.  No, it’s not.”

 

“shh…”

 

“Why did you have to save me?  Why couldn’t you just leave me here to die?”

 

His hand hesitated.  I noticed.  I fucking noticed.

 

“You want to go back home, and that’s it.  That’s the only reason.  That’s the only good I am to you.  That’s all I am to anyone.  I’m nothing.  I mean nothing.”

 

“alice…”

 

“Come off it and stop pretending.  Just…just stop.”

 

I’m all cried out and I’m over being smothered in my mistakes.  All I want is to be alone with my thoughts once and for all.  If he wants to go home, so be it.  After I rest a few hours I can take him there straight away.  It’s easier that way than keeping him here against his will in hopes that maybe one day he’ll come around.  I’m done.  I’m over it.

 

My friend-not-friend, my victim, my prisoner, stands, and I think that’s it, and a part of me regrets my words but I push it down to fuel darker things later.  He puts his hand on the knob and turns the shower on, letting it run a bit before turning to me, holding his hand out.  I stare at it, silently refusing.  I know if I take it now I’ll let my mind wander again into fantasies that will never happen.  I’m indecisive by nature, so sue me.

 

A shower does sound lovely, though, if a bit surprisingly.  Even if it’s only to wash the sick from my hair and wash the taste from my mouth.  I stand, if a bit shaky still, but phalanges clutch at my shoulder to keep me steady.  Endearing, but unnecessary for the moment.  My sanity relies on him backing off.  It occurs to me that maybe I should say something about being able to take him home, but I can’t get my tongue to form the words right now.

 

Maybe later I’ll indulge him.


	11. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He holds his hands out again as if showing me his splayed fingers will calm me down enough to keep me rooted to the spot. Lucky for him, I’m too tired to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wink wonk*

            I, I can’t get these memories out of my mind  
            And some kind of madness has started to evolve  
            I, I tried so hard to let you go  
            But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole

 

Clean and brushed out and dressed, I sit on my bed on top of the sheets and propped up by pillows.  The two shards of glass in my skin from the club are laying next to the trash can.  Every open cut on my body stings from ointment, but nothing bleeds anymore, so there’s no need for wrapping them up.  If I’m being honest, that’s probably for the best, because bandages is something that I don’t have, and I don’t know how long the ointment has sat in the back of my cupboard but I don’t think it can go bad.  I guess if it’s past due and I die from it, it was meant to be.

 

Sans hasn’t left my side since it happened.  Even now, he sits across from me at the foot of the bed, observing.  We haven’t talked since I called him out earlier.  I’m trying to rehearse how I’m going to break it to him that I can take him home and have been able to from the very beginning, but it’s hard to arrange my words when those Christmas lights are always on me.

 

The sky outside my window says dawn is near, but if I’m being honest, I feel like it should have come along hours ago.  This night feels like it will never end.

 

“alice?”

 

I don’t really feel up for talking right now, but I nod anyway, if only to break the silence for a second.

 

“why?”

 

I regret nodding.  That’s a loaded question I don’t want the answer to.

 

“i know conversations aren’t your thing, but…”

 

But what, Sans?  Curious?  Want to rub my face in it a little further?

 

“…i want to help you.  i just don’t know how.”

 

Nah, you’ve helped all you need to, buddy, friend, pal.  You can do wonders by just leaving me alone.  The more I look at you the worse I feel, because maybe I feel like I let you down in all of this and maybe I feel like I crushed my chances to feel you against me, and I don’t know why that still matters to me but it does.

 

“talk to me, kiddo.”

 

“Why?”

 

“huh?”

 

I take a breath.

 

“Why do you hate me?”

 

It’s a stupid question, and I hate myself for letting it past my lips, but there it goes and nothing I can do now about it but clench my teeth and wait for the inevitable.  The silence is crushing against my eardrums and why doesn’t he say anything why doesn’t he laugh at me or scoff or yell or just leave the room because I’ll take that or anything but I just can’t take his gaze on me for one more second or I’ll go mad and drag us both to hell where we belong.

 

“alice…”

 

God I changed my mind and I’d rather the silence than his voice because I already know the answer to this because there are so many reasons but if he starts listing them it will kill me and my heart will break and I know that I know the taste of rejection but it doesn’t mean that I like it.

 

“i don’t hate you.”

 

And I changed my mind again because nothing is worse than lies and I’d give anything to go back to the tense silence between us because at least that was manageable compared to whatever is happening now.

 

“don’t get me wrong, there’s bits and pieces that could be better, but that doesn’t mean that i hate you.”

 

Take it back, take it back, take it back or I’ll get my hopes up again.

 

“and even if i did hate you, what’s it matter?  there’s no reason to end it all over one person.  no one’s opinion of you should determine your self-worth.  don’t throw your life away just because one person doesn’t like you.”

 

Don’t respond don’t respond don’t respond or you’ll make it worse.

 

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

 

One eye socket grew larger, giving the illusion of an arched brow.

 

“um, i don’t know what you think happens when you breathe water and slice yourself up, but…”

 

“I’m aware what it looks like I was trying to do, but I’m telling you that’s not how it was.”

 

“okay, okay, it’s okay.”

 

He holds his hands out again as if showing me his splayed fingers will calm me down enough to keep me rooted to the spot.  Lucky for him, I’m too tired to run.

 

“I must have fallen asleep.  That’s all.”

 

His eyes keep glancing at my arms, so I fold them on my chest.

 

“I don’t remember cutting myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

I don’t like the look he gives me.  I don’t like it.  I hate it.  Stop.

 

“does that happen often?  hurting yourself without knowing it?”

 

I don’t like how this conversation is going, it’s turned against me, the spotlight is on me, and I think I’m done talking about it, thank you very much.

 

“hey.”

 

No.  No hey, no okay, no nothing, just stop.  Stop pretending that I’m more to you than a key to a lock on a door that only I can see.

 

“come on, alice, don’t shut down now.”

 

Fuck off, Sans.

 

“okay.  okay, you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.  i just am trying to understand what went on in there.  you had me worried—“

 

“Don’t.”

 

“alice?”

 

“Just.  Don’t, Sans.  We’ve been down this road.  Stop while you’re ahead, okay?  I’m alive.  Leave it at that.”

 

“alice…”

 

“No.  You know what?  No.  I can’t do this.”

 

“hey…”

 

Breathing is harder than it was a minute ago.  My emotions are stuck somewhere between anguish and unbridled fury, and I can’t tell you if it’s justified or not, because I only know of two things.  There is only love and hate, and there is nothing in between.  I have nothing to compare this to.  I haven’t had a friend, and if I ever did I don’t remember them.  With me, it’s all or nothing, and when it’s all, I want it all, not halfway, not sometimes.  Does it make sense?  Likely not.  Is it fair?  Heavens no.  I’m a mess, and if he’s smart he’ll leave now and spare himself the torment of being at my side while I’m lost in this maze of thoughts and feelings that are as intense as they are misplaced.  My temper is flared and my feet are shaky but I try to walk anyway, because if I look at him one more second I will end him, damned if he use magic against me or not.

 

I’m halfway to the hall when his hand falls on my wrist and I snatch it away.

 

“Why couldn’t you just let me die?!”

 

I don’t know if I mean that or not, because last I knew I didn’t remember almost drowning or attempting and failing at slitting my wrists, but right now I wish I meant to, I wish I meant to die, and I wish he had just stayed on the couch and never pulled me up for air.

 

I’m in the living room when he appears in front of me, palms out and left eye flaring blue.

 

“come on, kid.  don’t do this.  stay here.  rest up.  if you wanna go out later and cool off, fine, but for now just stay here, okay?”

 

“Get out of my way, Sans.”

 

I didn’t know I meant to leave the apartment, but now that he mentions it, that seems like the best idea, the only option, really, if we’re being honest here.  But he doesn’t move out of the way, even after I asked him nicely, and my legs are still a little shaky but never mind that right now for now, because I’m pissed and I’m sad and I don’t know why.

 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do or where to stay.”

 

“as your friend, i really think you should stay here for now.”

 

“Oh, fuck off.  Friend?  Really?”

 

“yeah.”

 

“You’re driving me crazy, Sans.  You know that, right?”

 

“uh, feeling’s mutual right now.”

 

“I’m leaving.  Move.”

 

“nope.”

 

I took a step forward, close enough to touch his infuriating face with my fist.

 

“sorry.”

 

And my feet left the ground for a passing moment before I slammed back, the couch breaking my fall.  I can feel my heart pound too fast and my face get too red and my blood boil too hot and so I do the only thing I can think to do in all my frustration.  I cry.  You’d be surprised how easy it is after you’ve already done it a few times in one day.  It’s almost second nature at this point.  As soon as the tears fall, he’s right there, soaking up my misery like a sponge dry too long.  I hate him for it.

 

“Why are you doing this?” I ask between sobs, my face hidden in my hands.

 

“you really gotta ask?”

 

Here it comes.  My reckoning.  The answer I never wanted, not really, not honestly, at least not verbalized, at least not for a second time.

 

“i care about you.  you scared me earlier.  i thought you were dead.  and it’s not because i’m worried about being stranded here in your world.  i mean, don’t get me wrong.  at the end of the day, i still would rather be there than here.  but for this moment in time, we’re together in this.  i don’t wish bad on you, and i definitely don’t want you dead.”

 

I feel the heaviness lift from my soul but another one takes hold that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

 

“when i saw you laying there, i didn’t know what happened.  i didn’t know what you took or how much.  i didn’t know if you bled out.  i didn’t know how long you were out.  did you poison yourself?  were you unconscious?  dead?  i was afraid.”

 

Bony fingers wrapped around my wrist and pulled it away from my face, forcing me to look at him even though I’d rather stare at the floor or the wall or the ceiling.

 

“i just don’t want to leave you alone right now.”

 

“So you’re putting me on suicide watch?”

 

God damn, why couldn’t he just let me drown?

 

“if you want to put it that way, sure.  i just want to make sure you’re okay.  i care about you.  even if you don’t want to believe it.”

 

He can say these words as much as he wants.  He can pretend that everything is fine between us and that everything is normal and that bits and pieces haven’t happened at all.  He can act like what we have is strictly platonic and both parties are alright with the arrangements, but I think both you and I know where I stand on that.  And I don’t want to say anything because I feel like if I stay quiet the argument will end and I can finally rest and send him back where he came from come afternoon, but I swallow my tears and the question is on my lips before I can stop it.

 

“And what about the club?”

 

And he just stares at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about but we both know exactly what happened because we were both there.

 

“What about the dance?  The walk home?  What about the last time we sat on this couch?”

 

And he looks away from me, finding something interesting on the cushion instead.

 

“This is what I don’t get, Sans.  You know where I stand in all this.  You know my feelings.  None of this is news to you, bone boy.  And yet, you continue to lead me along.  You didn’t have to meet up with me on the dance floor.  But you did.  Just like you didn’t have to let me hold onto you all the way home.  But you did.  When I came on to you, you could have stopped it long before I got on your lap.  But you didn’t.  You let it happen.  And I don’t know why.”

 

I don’t know why I’m shifting the blame.  I know it’s wrong.  I know it’s misconstrued.  I know that I’m twisting intensions and situations but I couldn’t stop once I started, and now here we are, here we sit, in awkward silence so heavy and thick you could cut it with a knife if you wanted to, but if we are being honest, that phrasing might be in bad taste given the situation.

 

“…i guess i don’t know why, either, kiddo.”  He picks at imaginary lint before continuing.  “i guess the things that happened tonight just sorta happened and i rolled with it.”

 

“Yeah.  Sure thing.  I get it.”  When I notice his eye lights flick up to me again I look away.  “Curiosity and all that.”

 

“yeah…”

 

The silence between us is deafening.  I’m exhausted in so many ways, and I think he must be, too, because he doesn’t stop me when my head falls to rest on his shoulder.  We just keep staring ahead at the wall and count our breaths or the seconds or something, anything but talking for a little while.  The silence is deafening.  But it’s nice.  A nice alternative to cold, harsh truths we have to face.

 

“For what it’s worth, it was nice.  Different.  But nice.”

 

I don’t have to explain what I mean.  He just shifts and drapes his arm on the back of the couch.  I fall a little further into him.

 

“same.”

 

Another pause.  I can feel my heart beating hard in my chest again, and everything in me tells me not to do it, screams at me not to do it, and I’m a little scared to go down this path again, but the seconds are ticking by and neither of us are making a move to push the other away, even though we just had this talk, even though he knows and I know and we know that this isn’t going to work out, but I can feel the tension between us and I know we talked but I also know that I won’t be satisfied until there is a definite no.  I touch his knee lightly, lingering, then shifting to the inside of his thigh.

 

“alice…”

 

I can feel the warning in his tone and that’s the definite I needed, so thank you and goodnight, and my curiosity is satisfied for the moment, for the time being, for now.  I lift my hand and put it back in my lap where it belongs, ready to respect boundaries and sleep on this and take him back home just as soon as I wake up.

 

“Sorry,” I mumble.

 

There’s a beat of silence, then another, then another, and I can hear his breathing pick up and can feel the static in the air and when his hand touches my shoulder it doesn’t faze me as much as it may have a minute ago because I get it, I learned my lesson, and I’m ready to accept boundaries and learn what is okay and not okay for friends to do, because if we are being honest, if we’re being true, he’s the first friend I’ve ever had, and—

 

“…fuck it.”

 

Sans pushes me back into the couch and traps me there, his eye flaring bright, his hand in my hair, his face buried against my neck, and I think I might be losing it, because if I’m not mistaken, I think I can feel him licking at my shoulder and up my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to resolve some tension ;)


	12. Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pulls away and looks down at me, a smile playing on his face. Cocky show off motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get. It.
> 
> Also, I should mention that I don't normally write smutty things, but damnit I'm taking a shot at it. In other words, please be kind.

            We might’ve fucked, not really sure, don’t quite recall

            But something tells me that I’ve seen him round before

 

I tense and melt and tense and melt so much that I don’t know where the cycle ends or begins.  There’s so many questions running through my head but I don’t think this is hardly the time or place.  If I start running my mouth he might stop whatever it is he’s doing with his.  I think he’s more familiar with the human anatomy than I am with his, and I want to reach out and touch but I don’t know where to start, so instead I lay under him writhing and trying to keep my breath.  But keeping my breath is a little hard when I feel teeth graze against the side of my neck.  That means his mouth can open, I rationalize, I theorize, but maybe only when he wants it to.  I don’t understand monster anatomy but I think I like it, I think I’m willing to learn it, because his tongue feels like liquid heat and his breath cools my skin and it’s driving me crazy, and I want him oh god I want him but I want this moment to last.

 

His hand strays from my hair and glides down my neck.  I seize his wrist and guide his bones to my cheek slowly, so slowly that I don’t think he realized what I was doing until one of his phalanges press against my lips, but only a moment, only a second, because in an instant my mouth opens and accepts what he offers, closing around the digit and running my tongue along its length, sucking gently.  He freezes.  The first rational thought to go through my head is that I crossed a line and he wants to stop, and I don’t think I can stop this time without leaving once and for all.  I close my eyes against the rejection but don’t let up on my attentions.  I’m willing to adjust years of technique to make it good for him, but I’m not willing to cease, and I feel like that’s what he wants, because I can feel him shift up and leave my neck empty and I just can’t do this, I can’t live with him heating me up just to make me cool down seconds later.

 

“…stars…”

 

I open my eyes and am greeted with San’s skull a few inches from mine, staring down not with hate or regret but something closer to a hazed awe.  His eye lights are trained on my lips around his finger.  He closes his sockets, and I get the first glimpse of his open mouth.  His teeth are still the same, unnervingly straight as I’ve known them to be, but with the addition of the tips of two that look sharp enough to do some damage.  I don’t know teeth, but I do know canines when I see them.  All at once I know I want to bleed tonight, and I know I want it to be by his hand.  Or rather…

 

I bump my head up to take more of his finger in my mouth.  When my teeth catch an edge of bone I wince.  This is new territory and I don’t know what feels good and what doesn’t feel good to someone without flesh but one look at his face and I know whatever he feels isn’t bad and—oh.  His tongue trails from his parted teeth, blue and dripping and impossibly long.  Oh.  Oh, yeah, I don’t know much about what I’m getting myself into but I’m willing to learn and I can feel the pulsing start up between my legs and I love every second.

 

He takes his finger from my mouth, lingering against my bottom lip before withdrawing completely.  We stare at each other, eyes half lidded and hazy with lust, each waiting for the other to make the next move.  He touches my lip again, opening my mouth with his thumb, and I can’t help but oblige, because his skull is coming closer and I think I know what he’s going for and I’m not sure how kisses work without flesh but I know I’m a fantastic student when I want to be and I think he’d be a great teacher, but those kinds of fantasies are for when the flame has eaten everything to embers and you’re desperate to keep the fire alive, but never mind that because his tongue, oh fuck, his tongue is exploring and all I can do is keep my mouth open and remember to breathe.  It’s hot and light and barely there but oh god I can feel it.  Otherworldly.  Wet.  Magical, if I can say that without sounding obvious.  It grazes my back teeth, testing, before running down my throat and back again to twist around my tongue.  It’s alien and foreign and of course it is because he’s not human.  He pulls away and looks down at me, a smile playing on his face.  Cocky show off motherfucker.  What else can he do with that tongue I wonder? 

 

I tug at my shirt and he leans up enough to help take it off.  I reach for my sweatpants, but I’m stopped by a skeletal hand, firm but gentle, and guided instead to my breast.  He pushes my hand to it the same as I did to him earlier.  When I try to touch him he just repeats the movement, making his point clear.

 

Keep my hands to myself.  I can work with that.

 

Phalanges, warm against my skin, wrap around the waistband of my pants.  Sans pulls them just past my hips when he hesitates, eyes lights flicking back up to my naked chest while I paw at it.  He grabs my wrist and pulls it down to my side, and I think I would find the motion irritating under normal circumstances, because at the end of the day this body is the only thing I own that no one should have control over but me, but I push the minor annoyance back when he captures my nipple between his teeth and clamps down.  I can’t stop the sound that comes from my throat, and I can’t tell you if it’s more moan or scream, but I can tell you that whatever it is, it was exactly the reaction he was looking for.

 

His hesitations apparently are exhausted and he wastes no time tearing my sweatpants and thong away, his hands steadily getting rougher as he manhandles me to a sitting position on the couch while he kneels in front of me.  I can feel the room spin as I’m lifted and placed a little too fast for my liking, and I can feel something that might be panic start to rise up in my chest, if unwillingly, of course it’s unwillingly, because I’ve wanted this, I want this, don’t I, and these feelings inside me conflict with my desire and I’m not sure how to react, what to do, because I’m not new to these sorts of situations, and maybe I want this but maybe a part of me doesn’t, and—

 

“too much?”

 

Sans looks up at me from his spot on the floor, his eyes searching mine for some sort of sign just in case I don’t feel up for talking right now.  I don’t know why, but it makes my stomach feel funny, or maybe my heart, or maybe it’s just nerves, but no matter the organ or place of origin, I’m grateful.  No, normally being held with bruising intensity is right up my alley, no matter if it’s with strangers or friends or enemies with sexual favors in exchange for something better.  But this is new and I’m a little shaky, a little nervous, and I think he notices because his grip lets up until he’s just lightly resting his hands on my thighs.

 

I don’t feel like talking (imagine that), so I respond by putting my hand on the back of his skull and pulling him closer to me, my legs spread and waiting.  I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, so maybe I should explain.  I don’t shove his face in my crotch the same way that has been done to me countless times.  I don’t force his mouth on me.  I don’t make him taste me.  The movement is slow and sensual and I still don’t think I’m doing it justice with words.  Maybe it’s too much information and maybe you don’t care to know but I need to engrave this moment on my memory for the nights that my bed is cold and lonely, and we’re so close right now, me and you, in this moment and so sharing these little moments just seems right.  Right?  So when I say that I pull him closer, I mean that the motion isn’t just me, but him, too.  I’m not a fool.  I know what I want and how to get it, and he knows how to give it to me, and, maybe even more importantly, he wants to. 

 

“Sans…”

 

And I don’t have to ask because that tongue that isn’t really a tongue is pressing against all the right places to make me squirm.  All I can think about is how long it was in my throat, and I don’t think he can read minds, or at least I didn’t, but maybe we can settle that great minds thing alike because as soon as the thought crosses my mind, his tongue presses my entrance.  I hear a growl, and I know that it didn’t come from me, so that means there’s only one person it could have come from, but never mind because I shift and my legs are over his shoulders and my head is on the couch cushions and it takes a second to figure out that the pressure on my ass and back is his hands holding me up, up to his mouth, so he can, so he…

 

“Oh god oh god oh god don’t stop.”

 

Because the magic that makes up his tongue is filling me to the brim only to leave me empty only to fill me again, over and over, and I can feel the pressure building, signaling my end, and I can’t tell if the trembling I feel is from me from the feeling or him from the exertion, but either way, either way, either way—

 

“Oh fuck yes!”

 

Either way I’m there.  I ride out the high and he licks me clean and everything is right with the world, everything is right about this, and I don’t know how we ended up in my bedroom on my bed, but when the wave of euphoria dwindles to static, I’m aware of his form next to me, close, so close.  His left eye is alive and burning and I think I’ll take back what I said about it sparking up only when he’s angry.  In his eyes is a hunger that I can’t deny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gET. IT. 
> 
> This got long (lololol). So for better or worse, um, it continues. And stuff. Actual story to happen chapter after next.


	13. Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think that’s all I ever wanted. The sun’s rays blaze through my window, but I think his blue eye is brighter. He’s not tainted by the smog and industry and progress of the city. He’s not fueled by drugs or booze or deranged fantasies. Good. Pure. At least by my standards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wink wonk*

            Cherishing, those feelings pleasuring  
            Cover me, unwanted clemency  
            Scream ‘til there’s silence   
            Scream while there’s life left, vanishing  
            Scream from the pleasure, unmask your desire  
            Perishing

 

Let’s take a moment to play a game called Have You Ever.  I’ll ask, you answer, alright?  Have you ever fucked a monster?  Not a bad person, but a living, breathing monster.  Your answer, of course, is no, because monsters like that don’t exist, at least not here, at least they aren’t supposed to. 

 

So moving on.  Have you ever breathed in harmony with a passing sexual encounter?  Maybe that’s a little too, ah, crude for the situation.  This isn’t just some fuck.  At least not for me.  And if your answer is yes, that shouldn’t be the situation for you either.  I’m not a good girl.  I think we both know this by now.  I’ve been around a few several dozen times or more, and I can tell you that not one of them have made something as mundane as breathing sound musical.  Not even the cat.  But this encounter, this moment in time, it’s more than just a casual meeting of genitals.  I know my answer is getting a little long winded and your interest is dwindling, but I guess the long and short of it (if that makes sense if that has ever in the history of ever made sense) is no.  Until now.  You see, my breath is light and his breath is heavy and with every exhale a growl comes from his throat (his throat but he’s bones but he doesn’t have a throat but magic makes magical things possible doesn’t it) and it’s music, plain and simple, but I guess it’s not that simple, is it.

 

Game over.  Moving on.

 

Sans touches my cheek with his skeletal hand and presses his skull against my forehead.  I don’t believe in soul mates, but if I did, I think I might have found mine.  But if I’m being honest with you, all this downtime feels like hesitation, and I would kill to know what is going through his head right now, right at this moment, but at the same time I guess I’m glad that I don’t know.  I don’t think I would like what I find.  But that being said, maybe I would.  I guess that maybe I’m the one who’s stalling now but forgive me, if you could, if you would, because I was propped up on my shoulder and facing him but his hand strays to my side and pushes me back down on the bed.  I’m distracted, but the more he touches me the more he brings me out of my thoughts.

 

There’s a glowing in his pants, and when I say his pants, I mean mine, because he still hasn’t changed out of my sweatpants from earlier when he followed me to the club.  I think if his tongue is indication of anything, I think I know where this is going, and I think you probably do, too. 

 

I blink, and he’s on top of me, caging me in on either side with his arms.  His mouth is on mine again and his tongue pushes a little deeper than it did before, a little further down my throat, while his hips push against mine and whatever is glowing in his pants, my pants, (hell, can they just be our pants?) rubs into me.  If I didn’t know better, I would think he’s testing waters.  Seeing how far he can go.  How far he can take this.  And I don’t know if it’s good or bad that I’ve done it all and more.  Am I exciting or damaged goods?  Tell me, Sans.  Tell me so I have something to work with here.  But you won’t, of course you won’t, because I would never ask and even if I would I don’t think I’d be able to with your tongue half down my throat.  I swallow.  It’s reflex, but I think he liked it because he moans in my mouth before taking his tongue back. 

 

His bones feel wet where I can feel them against my arms and head.  Is that from me or him?  Does it matter?  He closes his eyes and I can feel him shaking over me.  I want this to last, but the anticipation is killing me.  I guess I always assumed that since he’s a monster, we’d fuck like animals.  Does that make me racist?  Or is it sexist?  I’m not sure how that works, and I’m not sure if I care.  When he ate me out he was considerably rougher than he is now, right now, at this very moment.  Everything that doesn’t involve his tongue is painfully slow and it’s driving me mad.  It feels too much like making love might feel like, and I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet.  There’s a difference, you know, between making love and fucking like bdsm porn stars, and I want the latter because the former feels too intimate, but I’m stalling again. 

 

Let me back up.

 

Sans’s eyes are closed and his forehead is pressed against mine.  He’s too close to see him clearly, but the double image of his eye sockets squeezed tightly shut re-establishes my thought from earlier, the thought that maybe he changed his mind, maybe he regrets this.  He takes a breath, quick on the inhale, slow on the exhale, and he eases the waistband of the sweatpants (our sweatpants) down.  I’d love for him to ditch the hoodie but when I try and pull it up, he grabs my wrist and sets it back on the bed.  Apparently I’m still to keep my hands to myself.  But I can work with that I think, even if it does make me a little uneasy (but not enough to say anything not enough to object even though it makes me feel more like a toy and less like a person but not enough to voice it). 

 

When he pushes himself up on his knees to free himself from the confines of fabric, I push myself up, too, using my elbows for leverage and observe the glowing blue whipping out that’s a little too solid, a little too shapely, to be real.  But I suppose it’s as real as a skeleton dick can get, thank you very much, and I’m not much in the mood for debating the matter, because his tongue is slipping past his jaw line and he’s holding blue in his skeletal hand and he’s inching closer and oh my—

 

“Fucking.  God.  Damn.  Sans.”

 

Because the oblong shape his magic grew feels hot against me, inside me, and I can feel every movement, every shudder, every twitch.  He fills me to the hilt and exits almost completely before coming back for more again.  Slow.  Mind numbingly slow, and you’d think I’d be annoyed with it all but it’s all so hot, and I don’t mean that in an emotional sense, because when I say hot I mean that that’s all it is, physically, liquid heat pressing against my walls, and I’m in bliss, I’m ecstatic, enamored, engaged; I’m at the center of nirvana and he’s only testing the waters, or should I say that I’m drowning and he’s only beginning his meditations?  I don’t know, I’m upside down, topsy turvy, no room for coherent thought right now, because oh god, oh god—

 

“stars, alice.”

 

He trails his drooling tongue from my chest to my neck to my mouth, and for a brief moment, the thrust of one glowing appendage matches that of another, slow, sensual, so fucking good—

 

“so fucking good.”

 

And he doesn’t pull out, but he lifts my legs over his shoulders, settling deeper.  He grabs my ankle and holds it up high, licking old scars from burns from a time that seems like centuries ago at this point.  I can’t touch him, but I can touch myself, so my fingers trail down to join the fun between my legs, and I have to close my eyes against sensations that I can’t stand, can’t stomach, because this is pure bliss and innocently gentle and feels so good, too good, but never mind all that because he only stays sheathed within me another second before he pulls out and frees my legs.  He grabs my hips and rolls me to my stomach (a position I’m a little more familiar with to be honest).  I could situate myself for him to give him better access, but he’s being a little too gentle, a little too romantic, and don’t get me wrong because I think it’s amazing but god damnit I’m not ready for that, so I hold my breath and hope he doesn’t take this the wrong way when I squirm under him, away from his grip, because what I want, what I really want—

 

“and just where do you think you’re going, kiddo?”

 

A part of me believes that if I really wanted to stop he would stop.  But it’s the unknown that gets my blood pumping.  The fight or flight.  Life or death.  Maybe that’s a little extreme, but all the same, his phalanges dig into my hips until they rise up, then his hands stray to my shoulder and hair, holding me down to the mattress.  I can feel the magic in the air like static, but more than before, tenfold, crazed—

 

“Do it fucking do it fucking—“

 

And he’s in me, pounding relentlessly against my cervix, and the pleasure mixes deliciously with pain and lucky for me it’s the pain that I’m after.  I moan, I scream, I can’t catch my breath as he builds speed, each thrust more vicious than the last.  He leans into me, against me, on top of me, and if I let my hips down he pulls at my hair and resituates me, but the feel of his bones laying into me is suffocating, but I don’t tell him to let up, I don’t say a word not a word not a fucking word because if I do he’ll stop and I want this, I need this, to last forever, even as daylight streams through my window.

 

“alice you’re so good you’re doing so good oh stars oh alice—“

 

Praise is foreign to my ears, at least I try to make it so, because praise isn’t something that comes often, and praise only happens behind locked doors in asylums or orphanages, but I shove the memories down because I’m about to cum again and if the stiffness at my core is any indication of his own end, I’d be willing to bet he’s going to as well. 

 

Sans pulls out and flips me to my back again, pulling me up, lifting me, sitting me in his lap with my legs wrapped around his hips, my ankles pressing into his spine.  When he enters me again, it’s the suddenness of it all, the smooth transition from empty to full that makes me come undone, and not a moment later the heat inside me intensifies, liquid heat, oh god, oh yes, and I think I might melt from the inside out.  I want to scream while we cum together but he silences me with his tongue once more.  While not as aggressive as it was before, it’s enough to quiet my screams into moans, and I have to admit it feels better this way, and if I listen, if I really pay attention, I can hear his growling moans harmonizing with mine all over again.  We've come full circle.

 

He lays me down, and when I say me, what I really mean is we.  I don’t know much about monster anatomy, but every time I try to move away, his hips follow, and if I thought he had some girth to him before, it's tenfold now, so if I had to make a guess, I’d say we’re stuck like this for a little while.  Normally I think I would panic.  Not because I’ve been in a similar situation, nothing like that, but because touching under any other circumstance puts my nerves on edge and feels like electricity.  But no.  No reason to panic.  This is okay.  This is alright.  I think.  I think this is okay.  I think—

 

“shh, relax.  just lay here with me, okay?”

 

Okay.  Okay, yeah.  Yeah.  I think I can do that.

 

“everything’s just fine.  close your eyes.”

 

His voice is just deep enough, just soothing enough, to demand obedience without it really feeling like a demand.  Make sense?

 

“i’m here.  you’re safe.”

 

I think that’s all I ever wanted.  The sun’s rays blaze through my window, but I think his blue eye is brighter.  He’s not tainted by the smog and industry and progress of the city.  He’s not fueled by drugs or booze or deranged fantasies.  Good.  Pure.  At least by my standards.

 

He runs his fingers through my hair.  I fall asleep pressed to him, his magic flowing free inside my body.  Satisfied.  Complete.  Content. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending the sexual tension always makes things better. Right? No need to worry about morning after regret. Right? ...Guys?


	14. The Fighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you mean waking up next to me, I wonder? Is it because I lashed out? Or because you weren’t expecting to see me? You regret it, don’t you. You wish you hadn’t given in. And the funny thing is, I can’t blame you. What was I thinking? I’m so stupid. I’m so fucking stupid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a second and thank the people who've left me some feedback. It means a lot, and I'm glad you enjoy the journey so far. :)

            You don’t want me to love you  
            You don’t want me to need you  
            You don’t want to look at me for you will turn to stone

 

I’m trapped  
            I’m trapped  
                        I’m trapped all over again  
and no one is here to save me this time.  
            It’s impossible,  
but I should know better by now  
that nothing is impossible, especially  
when that nothing has everything to do  
with me.  
            All the same,  
            dead things should stay dead  
            where they belong  
                        and I know he’s dead  
                        because I felt his life leave him  
                                                            abandon him  
                                                            abort him  
                                                            forget him like a bad memory  
                                                                                    or a bad taste  
                                                                                    or a bad something  
but I can’t shake the feeling of shock or terror or  
whatever this pounding in my chest is but it’s  
making me dizzy and that’s the only thing I know for sure.

            But he’s come back for another round  
            and I don’t know what round we’re on  
            and I don’t remember when we last sounded the buzzer  
            or bell  
            or whatever  
            but the show must go on, I suppose, I assume,  
                        whether I like it or not.  
And  
            he’s  
                        here…

Oh, yes, I have forgotten a lot of things   
but I could never forget you.  
            You, with your rimless spectacles and tame mouth.  
            You, with your swept hair and trimmed beard.  
            You, with your dress clothes and expensive cologne.  
                                                Nothing but the best for the best psychiatrist around.  
But I know, you know, we know,   
that this façade you created is only skin deep  
if even that.  
                        You change, you grow, your arms multiply  
                        until you’re bigger and better and more terrible  
                        than ever before. 

I hate it  
            I hate you  
                        And I wish you would just stay dead.  
So when your hands reach out and strings spring forth  
and wrap themselves so lovingly around my wrists and ankles   
and pull tight enough to break the skin  
and it doesn’t matter how much I struggle or scream or beg or plead  
because you are going to do what you want  
no matter how much I don’t want you to.  
                                                                        “Alice…”  
You hiss my name and I’m getting ever closer to that  
            panic panic panic panic  
that you know me for.  
                                                                        “Alice…”  
The strings are pulling tighter and reeling me in  
to a mouth that splits and seeps   
            industry, innovation, ruin,  
and it doesn’t matter how hard I pull back  
because at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter  
that the bigger they are the harder they fall if you  
can’t get your footing well enough to deliver the first push.  
                                                                        “Alice,  
                                                            Alice,  
                                                Alice!”

 

“alice!  wake up!”

 

And his arms are on me and squeezing the life from me in one fatal crush.

 

“alice!  you’re dreaming!  wake up!”

 

And this is it, this is the moment   
that you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it,  
you deranged doctor?  Watching me  
break right in front of your eyes?  
Well keep watching, because my fight isn’t  
over yet.

 

“alice!”

 

Your face turns to bone  
and your brown eyes turn blue  
and you’re not over, but under  
and you’re not Dr Bumby.

 

“…Sans?”

 

I guess it was a nightmare after all.  The room isn’t dark anymore.  It’s bright.  Lights on?  No, sunlight.  It’s daylight and I don’t have skeletons in my closet but I do have one in my bed.  As the memories of how I got here flood my mind, I loosen my hold on his ribs.  I scratch my arm absent-mindedly as I roll off him, grounding myself.  I’m here.  He’s dead.  I’m fine.

 

Sans catches his breath beside me before getting out of bed, and immediately I feel lighter.  I didn’t realize he was using his powers on me until he takes them away.  He seems upset, and I feel upset because he seems upset.  Make sense?

 

A million questions buzz in my brain, and all of them are centered on what happened between us.  He seems cold.  Does he regret?  Was the spur of the moment late night fucking not his cup of tea?  Did he enjoy himself?  Does he hate me?

 

“Hey Sans, you okay?”

 

He turns back to me and smiles, but that’s not fair, because he’s most always smiling, isn’t he.  God, I’m such an idiot.

 

“yeah.  yeah, just not the wake up call i was expecting.”

 

Do you mean waking up next to me, I wonder?  Is it because I lashed out?  Or because you weren’t expecting to see me?  You regret it, don’t you.  You wish you hadn’t given in.  And the funny thing is, I can’t blame you.  What was I thinking?  I’m so stupid.  I’m so fucking stupid.

 

“alice?  anyone home?”

 

Please don’t look at me like that.  The last thing I need right now is your pity.

 

“ya know, you’re doing that faraway look thing again.  you know the one where you space out and attack me then act like nothing happened?  yeah.  not too fond of that one.”

 

It’s all in how he holds himself, I think, is where my problem lies.  He’s lying, I think.  But I can’t tell you what about.  I think lying to him comes natural.  It’s not his fault, at least not entirely, because I think half they lies he tells he ends up believing himself.  Where am I going with all this?  Oh Alice.  Where is your mind?

 

“alright, kiddo, I—“

 

“Sorry.  Ah, just tired, I think.”

 

Awkward.  This whole thing, this whole damn situation is just awkward, because I know, he knows, we know that last night was a mistake.  Too much drugs and booze and mixed signals combined into something that seemed great at the time but now just feels so wrong.

 

“yeah.  yeah…”

 

And when I say it was a mistake I mean that it was on his end, of course, naturally, because on my end it all felt so right.  My head is pounding from the imminent hangover coming my way (what I’m hung over on I could not tell you for certain, for the worst of my night of partying has already passed), but so is the very core of my being and I think I could go for another round and another again and again because I have a thing for the people that are bad for me and I have a knack for falling for anyone that I can’t have.  Sans, I think I would kill for you if you asked me nicely, or even if you asked me not so nicely, because I have a bad habit of liking being bossed around. 

 

“…heh, i dunno if we should…”

 

He trailed off, leaving the object, the subject, the whatever of the matter go unsaid with a shake of his head.  But he doesn’t have to say anything.  I can read the body language just fine, thank you very much.  It says ‘I dunno if we should talk about this or just forget about it.’  I don’t know which option is worse.  I don’t want to hear what he has to say about it.  I want to remember every second, every detail.

 

He shrugs, and that answers that. 

 

“…Tensions were high.  It happens.”

 

Excusing our night of passionate bliss as nothing is easier than what it should be.  It wasn’t nothing to me, and if he had half a brain, he should know that I’m lying for his sake.

 

“yeah, yeah i guess so.”

 

I like silence, but this silence is too long, too heavy, and if I’m not mistaken, I think he feels it, too, because he sits next to me on the edge of the bed and his shoulders sink and he just looks so defeated.  Guilty, maybe.  We sit in silence for five minutes too long, and neither of us can take the walk of shame because I live here and he can’t get home without me.  Besides, it’d only be a walk of shame for him because for me…

 

Fuck I’m such an idiot.

 

“Hey Sans?”

 

Are you ready to go home do you want to go home are you ready to go home—

 

“yeah, kiddo?”

 

I can take you home now I can take you back are you ready to go home—

 

“Wanna watch a movie or something?”

 

Not yet.  Not yet.  Even though I said I would, I’m not ready quite yet.  I know now that he won’t feel the same way for me as I do for him and even though he fucked me and slept in my bed his feelings haven’t changed, won’t change, will never change, but what’s a couple more hours?  Just as a goodbye.  Just to ready myself, ready us, prepare for the loneliness that is sure to follow my brief trip back Underground to take him home for good.

 

“sure thing.”

 

I’m such a piece of shit.  I’m so selfish.  He just wants to go home to his brother and his house and his endless night of snow and all that’s holding him here is me, and I don’t mean that as in he doesn’t want to leave me because I’m pretty sure at this point that’s all that’s on his mind, but because he can’t go back without me.

 

Why am I like this?

 

I crawl out of bed and throw on the cleanest sweatpants and shirt I can find on my floor.  I can feel his eyes burning into my back, my spine, my ribcage, as I pull the shirt over my head, and I wonder if that’s how animals at the zoo feel.  I wonder if that’s how Sans feels.

 

Take him home, Alice.  Take him home and end this silly passion play.

 

“hey.”

 

His hand falls on my shoulder and I want to turn around and look at him but I don’t want to see his face right now because I can’t take the shame that I feel anymore.

 

Take him home, Alice.

 

“i just want you to know that it’s not you, okay?”

 

Take him home.

 

“like you said, tensions were high.  one thing led to another and, well, you were there.”

 

Stop prolonging the inevitable.

 

“i guess what i’m trying to say is that it was fun.  like, really fun.”

 

I finally face him and take note that his mouth is solid once more.  I suppose it has been since I woke up but I just didn’t pay attention.  I imagine his canines.  I imagine his tongue.

 

“i enjoyed it, and i hope you did, too.  i just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  but i guess if you do, it’s on me, since i guess telling you no and then boning you is a helluva mixed signal.  damnit.”

 

Just take him home and end this once and for all.

 

“i guess what i’m trying to say is that what happened last night was, uh, good?  you were good.  heh.  but, the point is that if you’re looking for a relationship, i’m not your guy.”

 

I open my mouth to take a breath and cut him off and tell him that he can go home and he’s been able to this entire time and I just kept him here this long with excuses because I’m terrified of being alone again but I realized my mistake and I can’t keep him here prisoner if his heart just isn’t in it and—

 

“i like you, though.  as a friend.  and i think we could be good friends.  and i hope that one night doesn’t ruin that.  i mean, if anything, i think it makes us closer in a way, ya know?”

 

…Maybe another day wouldn’t hurt.  I mean, I think I can speak for both him and me when I say that we need time to just chill a minute.  We had a busy few days, after all.  And really, what’s another day when you have a friend.  A close friend.  A close friend with a few benefits sprinkled in.

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know what you mean.”

 

Just one more day.  Let me just have this one day to be with someone.  I’ll take him back tomorrow first thing in the morning.  I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good: Morning after went better than expected.  
> The bad: Withholding information is kinda the same thing as lying.  
> The ugly: Alice's sex hair is not sexy.
> 
> Some conversation and a few ticks of anger ahead. Hooboy.


	15. All These Things I Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this what friendship feels like? Or is this something more? I don’t know, I don’t usually want much to do with anything after I’ve gotten a chance to fuck them, but this feels different and I don’t want him to leave just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there :) It's been a long while. I wanted to get this little bit up and posted before I go on another little hiatus from it due to life running me ragged ;)

            Once more you tell those lies to me  
            Why can’t you just be straight up with honesty?

 

“you’re tearing me apart lisa!”

 

“I did not hit her I did noooot—“

 

“oh hi mark.”

 

At least an hour has passed since the movie ended, but we keep on quoting the same lines at each other over and over again, and you’d think it boring but you’d be wrong.  I’ve never laughed so hard in my entire life.  My head feels fuzzy from the extra oxygen in my lungs and I’m dizzy enough to be high but without the help of drugs or booze.  It’s nice.  I don’t want it to end, but night is coming and that means morning is just around the corner. 

 

Maybe I’m not painting this picture well enough for you to understand just how I feel at this moment, so let me go a bit deeper.  We started out on opposite sides of the couch, but one movie after another after another, we got a little closer, a little closer, until he was close enough to touch.  Not that the couch is large enough to never be able to touch the person next to you, but it’s the idea that if I wanted to touch him, it would be natural, it would be okay, and I think he would accept it if I did it.  And obviously, I think we all know at this point that I would definitely welcome any sort of contact from him.  So when Sans fell against me in a laughing fit during the beginning of the movie, I melted into him.  Little by little the small amount of space between us seemed comfortable, until his weight sunk me into the cushions, until he was laying on me, his skull on my chest.  You’d think that would make me feel nervous, hell, I’d think it would make me nervous, but I’m not.  It feels so normal.  Natural.  Like we’ve known each other for our entire lives.  And yes, there is the subtle pounding between my legs when his body settles against mine, but it’s not in the foreground like it was before.  I feel a stronger pounding in my chest, but even that’s overshadowed by the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. 

 

There’s a beat of silence, and then another, and then another still after the movie goes back to the title screen.  We alternate between staring at the television and the floor, eyes shaky and gravitating toward each other.  It takes a minute or more to get situated, but once we do, we just stare.  I don’t know how it feels for him; I can’t speak for him, but for me it feels…good.  I’m not one for eye contact, but this eye contact is alright enough, this eye contact is something I’m willing to make an exception for, me above and him below, and I don’t know if this is when I lean down and touch my lips to his teeth or if this is when I push him away and off me before I get any ideas that he doesn’t want.  Instead I freeze.  My head is still swimming but the rest of me is solid.

 

Lucky for me (or unlucky, depending on my mood right now, and right now I can’t decide), he makes the decision for me.  With a slow blink and subtle smirk, he shifts himself upright and leans against the other side of the couch, putting space between us.  I’d be lying if I said that the place he rested on my chest didn’t feel empty. 

 

Is this what friendship feels like?  Or is this something more?  I don’t know, I don’t usually want much to do with anything after I’ve gotten a chance to fuck them, but this feels different and I don’t want him to leave just yet.

 

“so what does it take to get me back home?”

 

Can he read minds?  Surely not, or he would have brought it up much sooner.

 

“not to nag, but you didn’t give me a straight answer before.”

 

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, smile ever present, and I smile back, though a little forced.

 

“Oh, you mean when you were choking the life out of me during your tantrum?”

 

Sans looks at me head on and rolls his eye lights.  His smile is still there, but a little less relaxed.  I recognize that look.  That patience of his is wearing a little, and maybe these moments together haven’t been real.  He’s just been biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment where I let down my guard enough for him to ask.

 

“come on, kiddo.  how many times do i need to apologize for that?”

 

“At least once more.”

 

God, Alice, stop it and answer.

 

“It takes a lot to hop between worlds, to answer your question.  A lot of energy.  Ah, drugs help speed things up.”

 

Lie and another lie.  All I have to do is fall asleep.  I don’t need drugs, I just need some concentration.  Drugs make mixups like going Underground and bringing Sans back happen in the first place.  But damnit, I need a reason to keep him waiting for this long.

 

There’s no mistaking the subtle disgust on his bony features.  My pastimes evidently are not something he’s fond of.  More reason to take him back now and quit pussyfooting around.  We wouldn’t work.  We would never work, and it’s nothing to do with him like he was so kind to say right after we got done in my bed.  It’s everything to do with me and my inadequacy as a human being.  Make sense?

 

“alright.  so how much longer until you can get them?”

 

“In a rush?”

 

“eh, just missing work this much looks bad on my resume.”

 

He winks, and I guess it’s supposed to be a joke, but I guess I don’t know him that well and I don’t know which part is funny, but I smile anyway.  I don’t know him that well, but I’d like to. I’d like to know him a whole lot better and maybe let him in, too.

 

“Who needs a job anyway?”

 

Evidently not me, because I’ve most likely been terminated at this point, and rent comes due soon, and I haven’t paid my bills in a couple months because a few parties got me into a few habits.  How long until they shut off my power?  When do I get my eviction notice?  More reason to take him back so I can get back into the swing of this thing called life.  The sooner he leaves, the less likely he is to learn what a worthless piece of shit I am, right?

 

“I’ll work on getting what I need first thing in the morning.”

 

A half truth peppered in this stew of lies.  Disgusting, really.  Better for me to keep my mouth shut and move on to the next movie, I think.  This tension in this room is getting heavy and electric and I don’t much care for the weight it puts on my insides.  Guilt.  I hate the feeling.

 

“is he the one you were dreaming about?”

 

It takes a solid minute for me to register what he’s talking about, and I have to follow his line of sight to the small picture hanging on the wall opposite us.  Apparently he’s satisfied with knowing that tomorrow is one day closer to home.  Business before pleasure, I suppose?

 

“Oh…no.  No, that’s, ah…  That’s my dad.  Him, my sister, and me.”

 

Or maybe he’s learning more about his enemy?  Some tool to use against me later on?  But that’s nonsense, isn’t it?  We’re getting along now, aren’t we?  Never mind.

 

I don’t have any photos of my time at the orphanage.  At least none that I would hang.  At least none that I would tell anyone about.

 

“gotcha.”

 

“I mean, I guess he looks similar, now that I think about it.”

 

What do I mean by that?  This isn’t an association I just made.  I’d known that from the beginning.  I think that’s why I went along with it for so long.

 

“Yeah, black out whenever it’s convenient just so I wouldn’t have to come to terms with reality.  Just like you, Alice.”

 

“…uh, you okay?”

 

Did I say that out loud?  I’m sorry, it’s a problem I have.  You’ve been around me this long; I thought you would have noticed it by now, and I’m kind of miffed I suppose that you would ask something so stupid because it’s obvious I’m not okay.  Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to because it’s rude and all that nonsense.

 

“Yeah.  Sorry, just, ah—“

 

“thinking aloud? yeah, i get that.”

 

The comfortable silence that existed between us disappears in favor of something a bit more awkward.  Unbearable.  Things have come to a standstill in the worst of ways, and I wish for nothing more than for him to quit staring at me.

 

“i should have guessed it wasn’t.  of course you wouldn’t have a picture of him hanging up for the world to see.”

 

He has a funny view of who the world is.  With the exception of him, no one else would have ever seen it, even if I did post what pictures I have of the doctor.  I don’t have people come back to my place for a reason.

 

“alice?”

 

But really, would anyone even make the connection?  I mean, if I just had some of the pictures of him, of before the little incident, no one would even know.  It was years ago, it seems like centuries, but I guess time flies because I’m what…I’m twenty three.  Or twenty four?  Twenty five?  I knew a minute ago, but now that I’m on the spot, I can’t remember for the life of me.  Isn’t that how it goes, though?

 

“do you need a minute alone or are you gunna have another thrash-fest because i kinda wanna be prepared for that.”

 

I think it’s been at least five years?  Maybe more.  Why can’t I think?  You would think I would remember something like that.  It was a momentous day, the end of the doctor, the end of the owner of the slaughterhouse, the end of Bumby.

 

“if i had to guess, i’d say it’s another one of those space out moments. so…”

 

Is it fair to compare him to a killer?  He didn’t kill our body, but he did kill our spirit.  So many kids into dolls to be sold to the highest bidder.  He didn’t touch them.  They did, but he didn’t.  He didn’t touch anybody.  Anybody but me.

 

“Oh…”

 

My body feels cold and heavy, like a fist is squeezing my heart and pushing it, pulling it, down into the cushions.  I look to my left and there is a wall.  I look to my right and there is Death, coming finally, at last, to claim what is his, to claim what has eluded him all this time, to pull me down to atone for the sins I have committed.  Try as I might to get up, to run, to fight back, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t move, I can barely breathe, and all I can think is all versions of the word no, but it’s no good, because, nothing, nothing, nothing is going to get us out of this mess, not this time, not this time, not this time because we are out of time, you, me, us—

 

Black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well....shit.


	16. This is Gospel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure in my chest increases twofold, threefold, more, until it hurts, until I can’t breathe, until the mattress under me won’t give anymore and the platform works against me. I close my eyes, ready for the sound of the cracking of bone, but just as sudden as it starts, it lets up again. I don’t get up from my spot. I know better.

> If you love me let me go  
>  If you love me let me go  
>  ‘Cause these words are knives and often leave scars  
>  The fear of falling apart  
>  And truth be told, I never was yours  
>  The fear, the fear of falling apart

“breathe through it. you’re okay.”

We’re in the bathroom and I don’t remember how we got here. I’m sitting in the tub with my clothes on, cold water just covering my thighs. There’s still glass on the floor and counter from the other day. Someone should probably clean that up.

“lost you there for a few minutes.”

Bones caress my cheek and I know how this goes. I know because I’ve been here before in this same situation in a different time with a different creature that wasn’t quite human. This story is familiar to me and I should know the ending by heart by now, but just because I have knowledge stored neatly in what’s left of my mind, what’s left of the pieces that haven’t succumbed to the madness at my core, doesn’t make anything any easier.

“kid? hey hey hey whoa stay with me here.”

It doesn’t matter how many times my vision goes in and out or how many times I crash and burn because this is it. I can’t put it off any longer. At the end of the day he doesn’t belong here.

“alice? you hear me right now?”

Just say it.

“alice? hey, kiddo, open those baby blues back up.”

Say it.

“kid, wake up. come on, let’s get you into some dry clothes. get you something to eat. stars, have you eaten anything since i got here?”

“Sans…”

And just like that, he quiets and stiffens. It’s like he knows, but he can’t know, because I haven’t told him yet and because he hasn’t flattened my skull into what’s left of the bathroom mirror.

I hate this part.

“Ah…let me get changed.”

Because when you hate me for the rest of your life I want to at least be presentable.

I stood and walked unaided to the confines of my bedroom, and I knew he was following close behind, and I knew I didn’t mind either way. I stripped the cold, soaked fabric over my head and down to my feet without bothering to cover my nudity or my scars. I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not one of those women, even if right now it doesn’t seem as such. But you have to admit, he’d seen it before, so what could possibly be the point of trying to hide something he’d already known and touched and tasted?

And just like that my thoughts turn to the other night and his magic on me and inside me and my face goes hot while I rifle through piles of dirty clothes to find the most clean. I wish we had never fucked. I wish we had never kissed. I wish he had never danced with me in a shady club and I wish he had never followed me outside at all.

“alice…”

I can’t just ignore him, so I turn, face him head on, a black tea dress in my hand held up to my chest like a shield.

“look, i’m not trying to start anything or make assumptions or anything like that, but, you know…”

His eye lights flicker to the floor and stay there for what feels like an hour before they come back up to met mine and I don’t like what I see there.

“…the movies and little chats are fun and everything. nice little break in the monotony of what our old routine of fighting was. lot less stressful. which i appreciate, really i do. i just don’t want you to get the wrong idea that this is something that it’s not. like i said before, the whole thing with the other night—“

“I can take you home.”

Alice…

“I’ve been able to take you home this entire time, but I wanted to put it off.”

I don’t dare look him in the face, but as I turn my back on him once more to throw the dress over my head, I can feel the electricity in the air, sparking against my skin, static that can only belong to one person, one monster, and I’m not afraid, afraid isn’t the right word. But that’s the thing, though. I don’t know what the right word is anymore.

“…what?”

Or maybe afraid is the right word, but I’m afraid for all the wrong reasons.

“I said I can take you ho—“

“damnit, i heard what you said.”

The venom in his voice makes the breath catch in my throat, and all at once I feel regret wash over me. Is it possible to go back to unsay what I said?

“i knew shit wasn’t adding up…”

He’s angry, and I can respect that, but I suppose that doesn’t mean I have to pay attention to it, does it? I don’t know, and I didn’t think it would be polite to ask him while he rants and raves and paces between the hall and my bedroom to shoot me death glares and fill the air in my lungs with electrical pulses that make breathing mildly uncomfortable, like deep breaths in a thunderstorm, or maybe not like that. And you’ll have to forgive me, because sometimes I get like this, and my mind leaves my body altogether until I’m nothing but a husk of who I should be but can’t quite bear to be right at the moment, so instead of listening I watch the blankets on my bed for any sign of movement, just in case something broke in while I was off playing games I shouldn’t be playing. And it goes well, it goes spectacularly enough, up until I’m pushed back onto the bed by that heaviness I’ve grown to hate passionately, with Sans standing at the corner of my vision, eyeing me with a single blue eye.

“are you listening to anything i’m saying?”

“No.”

Why lie?

“you are unbelievable.”

The pressure in my chest increases twofold, threefold, more, until it hurts, until I can’t breathe, until the mattress under me won’t give anymore and the platform works against me. I close my eyes, ready for the sound of the cracking of bone, but just as sudden as it starts, it lets up again. I don’t get up from my spot. I know better.

“alice…”

There’s weight on the bed next to me but I don’t look that way because I don’t have to.

“…you understand, right?”

That I’m not good enough for humans or cats or skeletons? Definitely.

“…listen, i---“

I don’t want to hear it, so I choose not to. I just need a moment to calm my nerves and I can get him back home where he so desperately wants to go. But instead I feel his bony hand on mine and I sit up and pull my hand with me. He’s a creature of words and I am not. That’s all. He’d probably wear on my nerves anyway with all his talk of ‘talking things out,’ so there’s that to hold onto.

I stand and turn my back to him and feel his hands on me again, this time my shoulders, and again I shrug him away. If he’s not careful I’ll lose my shit and end him where he stands, maybe possibly, but then again, I have to remember that this isn’t Wonderland and I don’t stand a chance as I stand right now. Make sense?

But again with the hands and this time the arms follow as he spins me around and brings my head down to the place where the bones of his neck meet his shoulders, and I don’t want this contact, so I fall to my knees but he falls with me so we are both on the floor. I reach up and grasp the ribs near his spine with the intent to break but I can’t bring my fingers to cooperate. All I can manage is to hold on for dear life while sobs I don’t recognize as my own wrack my body until it shudders against his. With every scream that escapes my throat, he embraces me a little tighter. Maybe he means to break me, too.

It could have been minutes or years or something in between; I’ve never been good with time. With each passing breath I feel a little warmer in my head and heart and I think you know where else, but I wouldn’t dare make a move this time. I can only take so much rejection, and I think I’ve learned my lesson.

We stand together and lean on each other as we walk back toward the bathroom. I say ‘the bathroom’ and not ‘my bathroom’ because this is not my bathroom. At least not for the moment. There’s a door there that wasn’t there before. The handle is frosted over even though the apartment is far from freezing.

Sans doesn’t question it, and for that I am thankful. It’s a common misconception, really. It’s not all rabbit holes and looking glasses. Little detours here and there can be as subtle as a misplaced doorway or a gentle sway in scenery. By the looks of it, this one leads back to the door to his house, if my memory serves me as it should, which, let’s be honest, is just as likely as unlikely.

No matter.

“Here.”

There’s no need to talk things out. Speaking of anything we feel is a waste of time and breath and magic, and there’s already been enough time wasted on my end. Still, Sans doesn’t pull away and bust down the door to his world, his home. He lingers, taking his time moving his arm from around my waist, taking extra time to brush his phalanges against my fingers. Hesitating.

“This is your last stop.”

That much is obvious, or at least it should be, but in case he didn’t know, well, now he does. Go home, Sans. Go home.

“Ah, something wrong?”

I ask, even though I don’t want to know, not really, not completely, but he’s not moving and maybe if I prompt him he’ll get it off his chest and just leave so I can go back out and score something heavy to pass the time by in my soon-to-be silent apartment.

And then he grabs my hand.

“come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

Because I can’t have heard him right.

“what’s here for you except vices and misery, alice? come with me. you can stay with me and my brother while you get back on your feet.”

But that’s not how these things go.

“I lied to you ever since you got here, Sans.”

Why would you ever even entertain the idea of keeping me around?

“yeah. and i forgive you for it.”

Are you insane?

“look. i’m not saying it won’t be tough. there’s things that aren’t going to fly underground, but…”

But what?

“let me help you. let me try.”

And really…

“what do you have to lose?”

I don’t have to look at the shambles of my apartment to know the answer to that question. I don’t give him an answer—not a verbal one, at very least—but my fingers wrap around his own and we walk hand in hand over the threshold into not a bathroom, but a small entryway leading to a room with a roaring fire nestled against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly to be continued in a separate arc? I have a few more ideas in store for Alice and Sans and more ways to make their life hell. Or I can leave this open ended and let you pretend that they lived happily ever after? Let me know what you think! :3


End file.
